Letting Go
by Ancalime8301
Summary: Letting go of someone you care deeply about is a very difficult thing. Sequel to "Holding On." Warning: story will involve character death.
1. Storytelling

Rating: PG-13 overall for dark themes, G for this part

Wordcount: 2,535 for this part

Chapter Summary: Frodo tells a story.

Warnings: this fic will eventually involve character death

A/N: This story is a sequel to "Holding On," which is in turn a follow-up to Skye's "Just Don't Have the Heart to End It" and Aemilia Rose's "Always There Beyond the Touch of Darkness." (Sorry, ff.n won't let me link, but you can search the site for them.) It's been in the works pretty much since I posted "Holding On" in June 2003, though obviously it took a while for me to get up the nerve to go through with it. ;)

* * *

_Chapter 1 "Story-telling"_

"Tell us a story, Uncle Frodo!" a small voice begged from beside his armchair near the fire.

Frodo looked up from putting leaf in his pipe for an after-supper smoke to see the hopeful face of young Tom. He set the pipe aside and smiled at the lad. "You'd like a story? Go find out if any of your brothers and sisters would like to hear one, too, and I'll think of one to tell you."

While the lad excitedly ran off to fetch his siblings, Frodo settled back in his chair and tucked his lap blanket more securely around his body. It may be the middle of July, but he became chilled very easily. Sam teased him that he just needed a bit more weight on him and he wouldn't have that problem. It was true he was still ghastly thin for a hobbit -and probably by Men's standards, as well- but he couldn't seem to do much about that, despite Rosie's excellent cooking and his own much improved appetite.

"I hear you're going to tell a story," Sam remarked with a grin as he entered the sitting room and checked on the fire.

Frodo smiled up at him. "Tom is quite persuasive," he said with a chuckle. "But I do enjoy it."

"That little mite is going to have the entire Shire wrapped around his little finger one of these days," Sam said fondly. "Will you need something to drink? Water? Ale?"

"A little ale would be appreciated," Frodo replied. "I learned my lesson at the Free Fair." Tom had, as usual, begged a story out of him, and young hobbits from other families joined the little group and listened so raptly that Frodo didn't have the heart to stop, even when he grew quite thirsty. When he lost his voice and nearly fainted from the heat, Frodo blamed both on not having anything to drink, so he always made sure to have something on hand before any storytelling. Not that he was likely to faint in Bag End, especially after such a hearty supper, but it was a good habit to have, regardless.

By the time Sam returned with a mug of ale, Tom had dragged all of his siblings into the sitting room for the story. Elanor was the only one missing, as she and Fastred and little Elfstan had moved to Westmarch the month before. Tom claimed Frodo's lap and the rest spread out on the floor, with Robin sitting in Rose-lass' lap. Frodo-lad even came, curious about the story but still unwilling to fully accept Frodo as anything but the mad hobbit in the back room, so he slouched against the doorway. Rosie followed Sam in, and they settled on the couch, Sam's arm around Rosie, after Sam made sure Frodo had everything he needed.

Frodo surveyed the expectant young faces, touched that they so happily accepted him. "Well, now, where shall I begin? Has your da told you the story of my uncle Bilbo and the three trolls?" He looked down at Tom, who shook his head energetically, and even Rose-lass and Merry and Frodo-lad seemed unfamiliar with the tale. "No? Then let me begin. It started when Bilbo -no, not you, Bilbo, though you're named for this daring adventurer!- went on a journey with thirteen dwarves . . ."

Sam listened with interest, and noted that some of the details Frodo told were different than how he remembered Bilbo telling it, but he wasn't sure if that was Frodo embellishing or if he'd plain forgotten some parts. In any case, it didn't matter much, for his children held on to Frodo's every word with rapt attention, and it was a joy to watch Frodo storytelling, his face and limited gestures saying as much as his words.

"He would have been wonderful with his own bairns," Rosie whispered in his ear after a while.

Sam nodded and tightened his arm around her. "Aye. At least he has ours to dote on."

"And you weren't sure we should've had so many," she teased.

"You ain't heard me say that since before Tom was born, and I changed my mind, any road," Sam replied, kissing the top of her head.

She laughed softly but said nothing more.

When Frodo finished his tale, over an hour had passed. Tom was half-asleep in Frodo's lap, but still begged, "More?"

Frodo chuckled. "Only a bit more. Your father and I came upon the stone trolls during our own adventure. He'll have to tell you more about them; I'm afraid I don't remember much of that part of the journey."

"Why?" Robin asked shyly.

"Why don't I remember?"

Robin nodded.

"I was wounded about a week before that and the injury was making me ill," Frodo said diplomatically.

"Ill like you have been for most of my life?" Frodo-lad asked cynically.

The popping of the fire was the only sound as Frodo tried to think of a reasonable answer and Sam's expression grew thunderous. He was about to scold his oldest son, but Frodo caught his eye and shook his head slightly, mouthing the words, 'Not now.'

"No, not like that at all," Frodo replied, directing his words at all of the children. "My arm and shoulder got cold and I couldn't see well. I could hardly bear to move, because everything hurt. It was much like a bad flu, I suppose. I nearly died."

Frodo-lad snorted and muttered something under his breath that Sam couldn't make out, but Frodo knew to be a comment to the effect that they would've been better off if he had. Frodo shakily took a large gulp of the warm ale, shuddering a little as he swallowed.

"Everyone to bed," Sam announced, to the whined complaints of his brood. "Frodo-lad, stay here. I need to have a word with you."

Rosie gently tugged Tom's hand until he got up from Frodo's lap and patted Frodo on the shoulder before she left, tailing the huddle of children now chattering excitedly about trolls. Merry and Pippin had produced sticks from somewhere and were beating each other with them, proclaiming that the other was a troll that needed to be subdued and trapped outside so the sun would turn him to stone. Rosie grabbed the makeshift weapons and swatted them both, sending them scurrying to get washed and dressed for bed.

Frodo-lad sulkily crossed his arms and shifted uneasily from one foot to the other as he stood in front of his furious father. Frodo, still in the armchair on the other side of the fireplace, watched as Sam scolded his son for being disrespectful of Mr. Frodo and for saying such things in front of his siblings. "If you're going to say such things, you're not welcome here," Sam finished.

"Sam," Frodo said chidingly. He didn't want to be the cause of Frodo-lad being kicked out!

"I don't stand for other hobbits saying such things about you, so I'm certainly not going to let one of my children say it!" he told Frodo, then turned his attention back to his son Frodo. "As it is, you're grounded and get to muck out the stable every day for a fortnight. Apologize to Mr. Frodo and mean it, or it'll be a month."

Frodo-lad turned to Frodo reluctantly, but Frodo was still looking at Sam. "Sam, has he read the story?"

"What, the Red Book? No, only Elanor has. I put it away after you took a bad turn; I didn't think it wise that they read it. I thought it would be too frightening to see you and then read that."

"My bad turns are all the more reason they should have read it," Frodo responded wearily. "Perhaps then they would understand why I became like that."

Sam considered this a moment. "You're right. I'm sorry. All right, lad, you also have to read the Red Book in the next fortnight. Now apologize."

Frodo-lad scowled at this addition to his punishment, but managed a sufficiently contrite "I'm sorry" to Frodo that Sam was appeased. "Your tasks begin tomorrow. You may go to bed."

After the lad left, Frodo sighed and let himself droop against the chair. "You are hard on him."

"He is cruel to you and I won't allow it," Sam said defensively.

"He doesn't see why he should respect a hobbit that has been locked away in madness for as long as he can remember," Frodo countered. "I understand his difficulty, and frankly, I'm surprised some of the others don't feel the same way." He pushed his blanket aside and inched forward in the chair so he could stand.

"If any of them say it, they'll be joining Frodo-lad in the stable," Sam said fiercely.

"My dear Sam, you are far too protective of me sometimes," Frodo replied fondly. "Would you give me a hand out of this chair? I've been sitting too long."

Sam offered both of his hands to Frodo, who used them to stiffly pull himself upright. "Oh, some days I feel so very old," he said breathlessly, not quite able to straighten his back entirely. "And then I remember I really am old, so I suppose that's part of the territory."

"You're not a spring chicken, that's for sure, but I'm not sure I'd call you old just yet," Sam said lightly. "When you hit a hundred, perhaps then you'll be old."

"I'm not sure I want to think about what one hundred will feel like. I still can't believe it's me in the mirror sometimes," Frodo said, beginning the slow and painful walk to his bedroom.

Sam followed a step behind, watching Frodo's progress. "Did you want the cane?" he asked, seeing how unsteady Frodo seemed to be.

"No, thank you. It's not far, and I'll use the wall when we reach the hall."

Frodo's current bedroom had been a small guest room when he was Master of Bag End -he had surrendered the title and control of the estate finances to Sam many years ago, when he realized that his fits threatened to overcome him. It was the closest to the living areas and to the main bedroom so Sam and Rosie could come to his aid if needed, but thankfully he had not yet needed to call for them.

Once he reached his doorway, he said good-night to Sam and closed the door behind him; as soon as he was able to dress and care for himself, he had insisted that they allow him to do things for himself, even though it might take him a long time. It was the only way he was going to get any better, and he had some satisfaction each day that he really was getting better at last. Those long years of being shut away and needing care like an infant had been humiliating whenever he came to himself long enough to realize his situation.

Frodo undressed in front of his mirror, slowly pulling his shirt off over his head rather than trying to do the buttons, and examined himself critically. The first thing he always made himself remember is that he was much better than he used to be; for the first two months that he was in his right mind and starting to spend time with the family, he had refused to look at himself in a mirror. When Rosie finally forced him to look at a hand mirror so he could tell her when his hair was the right length, he'd been horrified. Rosie saying he looked a sight better than he had certainly hadn't helped.

When he finally had the courage to face a full-length mirror, he resolved that he would repeat the experience every week or two, so he could see for himself the improvement that Rosie and Sam were continually remarking upon. Today he could see he was, in fact, gaining a little weight, the gullies between his ribs looking more like grooves and his stomach was almost filled in as he patted it. It would shrink down once his meal was fully digested, as he'd learned in the past, but for the moment it almost seemed like he had some weight on his bones. He still had skin hanging loosely, like a stretched-out woolen sock sagging around one's ankles, but he knew some of that could be attributed to growing old rather than his weight or lack of it.

The scars in various places were the same as always, and he passed over those. His arms and legs were distressingly stick-like, even the left arm with its many raised scars from when he'd scratch and dig at his own flesh, but he had slowly been developing a little more muscle definition as he did more things under his own power. He turned slightly to check for any irritation from sitting so much -his skin was so thin that it seemed to react to every irritant, including remaining in one position too long- but saw nothing. Perhaps the flannel-lined breeches were helping, then. Early in his recovery he had been plagued with recurring, painful sores on his hips and buttocks, which the healer said were from sitting too much; Goldi had suggested putting flannel in his breeches so he would be sitting on a more forgiving fabric when he did need to sit (which was often).

His inspection completed, Frodo pulled on his nightshirt and pulled the fasteners through their loops. When he had confided to Rosie the difficulty he was having with buttons, she had the tailor give her some wooden toggles that she sewed on instead. These were much easier to grasp and could be manipulated with one hand.

Frodo sat on the bed and carefully hefted one leg, then the other, onto the mattress, and reflected that he had been wise to finish the Red Book when he did, even though his obsession with it near the end may have helped bring on the madness. He could barely write now, the stiffness of his fingers and the swollen joints making it painful to grasp a quill. Young Rose served as his secretary when he needed to write a letter, which wasn't often, since most hobbits chose to pretend he didn't exist. It was easier than try to understand how he could be mad for years, then suddenly be back in his right mind for months on end.

But he didn't mind being ignored. It was easier than hearing the inevitable comments about his appearance and speculation about when he'd have another fit and if he'd finally kill himself off. He could shrug off such statements in public, but they hovered in his mind for days after, taunting him like the voices often did during his madness. He didn't tell Sam any of it, though. He didn't want to worry him that the madness sometimes half-heartedly returned, though Frodo lived with the fear that it would return with a vengeance and he would have to admit it had all been an act.

Frodo shivered and forcefully turned his mind to the contentment he'd felt that evening, telling Bilbo's story to Sam's children. It was a much better thought to sleep on.


	2. A Birthday

Rating: PG-13 overall for dark themes, G for this part

Wordcount: 2,817 for this part

Chapter Summary: Frodo has a birthday.

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Frodo was lying in his room for his afternoon nap when familiar voices pulled him from his doze. He listened carefully, scarcely able to believe his ears, but his suspicions were confirmed when he heard one ask, "So where is that cousin of ours?"

He grinned and hobbled to his door, pulling it open to peer out. "Rosie, is that Merry and Pippin I hear?" he called down the hall.

"It sure is, Mr. Frodo," she said, and Frodo could hear the smile in her voice. "You can go on back now, but be gentle with him, he still ain't quite strong," she instructed the visitors.

Frodo held onto the doorframe as he shuffled into the hallway and he wished his cousins had called on a better day; he was feeling every year of his age, and a few more besides, in the aches and pains he had today. "Merry, Pippin!" he said joyfully as they came down the hall. "Was Rosie guarding the hall?

"Yes, she makes an excellent sentry." Merry hugged him gently, then looked at him carefully. "Sam was right, you are looking better."

"Not feeling it today, I'm afraid, but such is life at this age," Frodo said ruefully as Pippin hugged him in turn.

"That's all right, we don't expect you to romp in the yard or anything," Pippin said cheerfully. "That's what lads are for."

"What brings you here?" Frodo asked curiously. He had only seen them twice since he had been up and about, once at the Free Fair with their families, and again briefly when they had come to meet with Sam and go up to Michel Delving on business.

Merry smirked. "Sam wrote to us, saying there was an urgent matter we needed to discuss that would take several days, but I think the 'urgent matter' will involve a party."

"A party? For what?" Frodo felt like there was something he should have understood, but it was passing him by.

Pippin laughed. "My dear old hobbit, what is the date?"

"Uh . . . September . . . something? The exact date doesn't usually make a difference to me."

"It's September 20th," Pippin informed him, then watched him expectantly.

"Oh, my birthday," Frodo said, somewhat bewildered. How long had it been since he'd celebrated his birthday? And why didn't Sam tell him it was coming? He would need to find mathoms for everyone!

"I think Sam is planning something, but don't take my word for it," Merry added. "At the very least, it will be nice to be here to wish you a happy birthday on the auspicious day."

"Yes, of course," Frodo said absently, the suddenness of being told it would soon be his birthday still troubling him.

"You won't need to hand out mathoms," Pippin assured him, sensing his distress. "We're happy to see you doing so well."

"If you want to go finish your nap, we won't trouble you anymore. We need to take our things to the inn anyway."

"You aren't staying here?"

"We haven't stayed here for a while, Frodo. Sam has quite the brood, you know, and even Bag End has a limit on the number of beds."

"Yes, of course," Frodo said, embarrassed he hadn't thought of that.

"We'll be back for dinner," Pippin informed him. "We can catch up with you and Sam then."

"All right," Frodo said faintly, hugging them again and watching them leave. He wondered what they would say about him, that he seemed confused, perhaps? If they were in his place, they would be confused, too.

After he heard the front door closed, he wandered into the kitchen where he could hear Rosie working. The children were all playing outside and Sam was out, doing his Mayoral duties, so Frodo knew the only sounds had to be Rosie.

She heard him come in and said without looking up from her cookie dough, "I thought you'd nap longer. I expected to have to tell those two to wait until dinner to see you."

"I heard them and came out. I don't think I was fully asleep." Frodo gingerly sat down -he'd managed to develop another one of those sores, so sitting on the hard kitchen chair was rather painful.

"If you want to go lie down again, I'll wake you for tea."

"Why didn't anyone tell me it's almost my birthday?" he asked, ignoring her last statement.

Rosie stopped rolling out the dough and looked at him. "I thought you knew what day it was," she said uncertainly.

"I only knew it was around mid-September. The individual days rather blend together."

"I'm sorry!" she cried. "I really thought you knew. Do you mind that we asked Merry and Pippin to come for a little celebration?"

"No, I don't mind. It's good to see them again," Frodo said honestly. "I'm afraid they think I've gone witless, though, with not knowing about my own birthday."

"I'll explain when they come for dinner," Rosie soothed, starting to cut shapes from the flattened dough. "Did you want to try to lie down for a bit longer?"

"Yes, I think I will. Would you make sure I'm awake an hour before dinner? I shouldn't have tea if I want to eat a respectable amount at dinner."

"All right. Would you like me to wake you an hour before dinner is served, or an hour before Merry and Pippin were told to arrive?"

"An hour before they were told to arrive. I'll need the time to make myself presentable."

"I noticed you're moving a mite slow today," Rosie said sympathetically. "Do you need a poultice or a hot water bottle or anything?"

"I might need a long, hot bath before bed tonight, but I'll be all right for now. Thank you, Rosie." He stood carefully and shuffled back to his bedroom. Rosie watched him go and made a mental note to brew up some willow bark tea to take in when she woke him. That should get him through dinner, at least.

Between a sound nap and the tea, Frodo was much more alert and in a better mood when Merry and Pippin arrived for dinner, which reassured them, as they'd feared he was somehow losing his mind again. They left fairly early in the evening so the children could get to bed and Frodo could have a good soak in the tub. Frodo took it easy the next day so he would feel as good as possible for his birthday. He even rested for a while in a sunny spot in the garden, though he couldn't stay out as long as he would've liked for fear of getting sun-burnt.

The morning of Frodo's birthday dawned cloudy and grey, threatening rain, which made his very bones ache, but Sam predicted a sunny afternoon, so Frodo spent the morning in bed and tried not to despair that his first birthday in years was turning out badly. Indeed, the sun was burning through the clouds by luncheon, so Frodo felt a little better about the weather, at least. The aches were never as quick to leave as the clouds were, but by the time he rose from his afternoon nap, he was feeling distinctly improved and looked forward to dinner and his modest party.

He dressed carefully and combed his hair neatly; while his hair had definitely gone grey, it was only slightly thinner than when he was younger, so he didn't feel too self-conscious about the color. Today was his eighty-seventh birthday, after all! Grey hair was to be expected.

As Frodo emerged from his bedroom, there was a knock at the door. He called to Rosie that he'd answer it, and opened the door to find Merry and Pippin holding a huge cake. "Happy Birthday, Frodo!" Pippin said with a grin. "Where shall we put this lovely confection?"

"Uh . . . take it in the kitchen and ask Rosie," Frodo suggested, astonished at the size of it.

"You'll never guess who we picked up on the way here," Merry added, gesturing behind them with a jerk of his head.

When Merry and Pippin made it through the door, there was Fatty Bolger, standing nervously on the stoop. "Fatty!" Frodo cried happily, embracing him enthusiastically. "How wonderful to see you!" It had been years since he'd talked at any length with Fatty, having only briefly seen him once or twice in recent months.

"I'm right glad to see you, too, Frodo," Fatty said, gingerly patting him on the back. "Sam said I should come by for your birthday dinner, so here I am."

"Come in, come in, and tell me what you've been up to," Frodo said eagerly. He led Fatty to the sitting room and listened happily as his friend related the recent events of his life. Merry and Pippin joined them, having been kicked out of the kitchen by Rosie after Pippin tried to sneak some icing from the cake, and the four of them talked until Sam came to call them to dinner.

Sam led Frodo into the dining room, where Rosie had set the table with the fine china and several platters of food were steaming. Frodo was escorted to the head of the table, and as he sat on the padded chair, he asked, "Where are the children?"

"At Marigold and Tom's," Sam replied as he sat on Frodo's right. "We wanted a nice, quiet dinner with just us old folk," he said with a wink.

"They'll be back for supper and the cake," Rosie said from Sam's other side.

"Ah, good. I thought that cake looked a mite large for just us." Frodo grinned. He looked around the table thoughtfully. "This is almost like my fiftieth birthday. Except Sam and Rosie are here instead of Folco. No, Sam, you were here then, you just weren't at the table." He paused, getting his train of thought back on track. "Where is Folco, anyway?"

Sam looked down at his plate, and the others shifted uneasily. Merry finally answered. "He died about ten years ago, Frodo. He was helping reinforce a smial out in Oatbarton after a series of bad storms and it caved in on him and several other hobbits."

Frodo fidgeted with the edge of his waistcoat, trying to absorb this news. "Has anyone else died that I should know about?" he asked quietly.

"I don't think so, but I'd have to think it through a while," Merry replied. "Let's talk about this tomorrow, all right? We'll have time to think, and the food won't get any colder," he said gently.

Frodo nodded. "I'll hold you to that. What's for dinner?"

"Baked ham, roast potatoes, green beans, baked apples, and slices of a fruit that Strider sent called 'pineapple' -he said it was good with ham, so . . ." Sam shrugged. "What would you like?"

"A little of everything, if you don't mind," Frodo said.

While Sam served, Merry poured the wine. When the food was heaped high on their plates, Merry raised his glass. "To Frodo, on his birthday! May we celebrate many more like this."

"Hear, hear!" the rest chorused, and all sipped from their glasses, then dug in to the food.

Frodo hadn't eaten since luncheon so he'd be able to eat a good amount for dinner, and he made significant headway into the small portions Sam had given him under Rosie's direction. At length he sat back with a contented sigh. "That was all very good, thank you. I liked the pineapple."

"Yes, it was quite interesting," Fatty agreed from the other end of the table. "Where do they grow?"

"Way down in the South, the letter said. We had quite a time trying to cut it, even though Strider sent instructions, on account of its thick skin and sharp leaves," Sam told them.

"Really? What does it look like?" Frodo asked, intrigued.

"I'll go get one. He sent several," Rosie said, rising and disappearing into the kitchen and returning with a strange thing having a spiny top and rough body. She handed it to Fatty, instructing him to grab it underneath the leaves so he wouldn't get poked. Fatty passed it to Pippin, who wasn't as careful about handling it and received some stabs in the palm for his trouble. He quickly threw it at Merry, who avoided the leaves entirely and set it on the table in front of Frodo. He touched it carefully, marveling at the strange coverings these southern fruits grew.

"Would you mind showing us how it is cut?" Frodo asked curiously.

Rosie and Sam looked at each other and wordlessly agreed that it couldn't hurt. "We may want to do it in the kitchen, though. The juices tend to go everywhere," Rosie said.

"Of course," Frodo said promptly, pushing back his chair and carefully standing. Sam took the pineapple, and they followed Rosie into the kitchen. She moved the cutting board onto the table so the observers -especially Frodo- could sit to watch. Sam thoroughly sharpened the knife, and made sure Frodo was comfortable before he began. Rosie held the pineapple while he cut, for they had discovered the first time that the treacherous fruit often tried to roll away.

Frodo watched, fascinated, as they removed the green top, then the bottom, then started slicing off the sides. He picked up one of the side pieces, marveling at the rough outside in contrast to the juicy inside. Sam had to stop and resharpen the knife midway through, then finished removing the outer skin. Rosie stepped in and dug out any remaining spots of skin before Sam started cutting the column into round slices. Frodo thought it would be done at that point, but Rosie took the slices and cut the middles out of them to leave rings of pineapple flesh.

"Why take the middle out?" Frodo asked, picking up one of the rings.

Rosie handed him one of the sections she removed. "They're very hard," she explained and let him feel for himself.

"Oh, I see," Frodo said, nibbling at the center experimentally. "Yes, it is rather tough," he agreed, putting it back with the others. "This reminds me of those oranges with that thick peel and the stringy parts."

When the children returned for supper, they found the adults still discussing fruits from the South over a dismantled pineapple on the kitchen table. Several of the brood were curious enough to try one of the strange fruit rings, but still eagerly asked about supper. Rosie set out crackers and cheese for her vultures to appease them until the cake was ready to serve, and had Frodo-lad and Rose-lass help her clear off the dining room table. Sam brought the cake in from the pantry and put it in the dining room, then herded Frodo and their guests back into the dining room to do the requisite cake presentation and birthday wishes before cutting it.

Frodo sat in front of the cake, grinning with happiness as his friends sang the birthday song, then breaking into laughter when Merry and Pippin continued singing a pub song with the same tune and Fatty joined in. Sam had Frodo cut the first piece for himself, then Rosie efficiently cut the rest and put the pieces onto plates that Sam held for her. Frodo slowly ate his cake, savoring the sweetness of the icing and the filling, the texture of the cake itself. Sam and Rosie were too good to him; they all were.

After the cake was devoured, the children dispersed and Frodo and his cousins went to the sitting room while Rosie and Sam cleaned up. Merry and Pippin tried to offer to help them, but Sam sent them to be with Frodo, arguing that they saw him every day. Frodo was happy to sit and listen to his friends talk; he was quickly growing tired so he didn't contribute much, but it was so nice to sit there with them that he didn't want to surrender and go to bed.

When Fatty, Merry, and Pippin finally took their leave, Frodo was nearly asleep in his chair. Merry and Pippin promised to return in the morning, so Frodo sleepily bade them all a good night and thanked them profusely for coming. Sam and Rosie had to help him up and to his room, but he still insisted on undressing himself and sent them to their own bed after expressing his appreciation for all they'd done for his birthday. Rosie kissed his forehead and told him he was a silly old hobbit if he thought they wouldn't do all they could to make his birthday a good one. Sam was reluctant to leave him without making sure he was safely tucked in bed, but Frodo reassured him enough that he finally left as well.

Frodo went to sleep, feeling more content with his lot than he had in a very long time.


	3. Recovery

Rating: G for this part

Wordcount: 2,153 for this part

Chapter Summary: Frodo recovers from the excitement of his birthday.

* * *

Merry and Pippin crept into Frodo's room, closing the door behind them, and watched him sleep peacefully for a few minutes. Rosie had given them permission to wake Frodo, as it was nearly time for second breakfast and he needed to get up soon if he was going to sleep that night. Pippin crouched next to the bed, putting his face at the same level as his sleeping cousin's, then said cheerfully, "Good morning, Frodo!"

Frodo's eyes snapped open and he cried out in surprise. Merry stood behind Pippin and asked, "Did you sleep well?"

Frodo made no response, but started edging backward across the bed, whimpering. Merry and Pippin exchanged a look and Merry ventured, "Frodo? What's wrong?"

But Frodo didn't seem to see them, and continued moving away. He reached the edge of the bed, his left arm catching on the bureau wedged between his bed and the wardrobe, while the rest of his body continued off the bed. A yelp of pain preceded him disappearing from sight completely.

Merry and Pippin were horrified and raced around the bed. Frodo heard their footsteps and panicked, scrabbling for a hiding place. Merry reached the other side first, and was baffled to find that there was no Frodo. It didn't take long for them to realize he must have gone under the bed, so Merry laid on the floor and peered underneath. He sent Pippin around to the other side to see if one of them could pull him out, but Frodo caught on and curled up out of their reach against the wall beneath the head of the bed.

"I didn't know he could move so fast," Merry said to Pippin beneath the bed. "Can you get in there? I can't." The bed was just high enough from the floor that a smaller, thinner hobbit like Frodo could fit with ease, but Merry and Pippin were simply too big.

There was a light knock on the door, then Rosie entered with a cup of tea and a small apple tart on a plate. "Mr. Frodo, I-" she stopped when she saw Pippin on the floor, staring under the bed. "What happened?" she demanded, putting her items on the bedside table. Pippin told her Frodo's reaction when he'd tried to wake him. "I told you he had to be woken gently!" she cried, slapping his shoulder. "Out with both of you, right now! I cannot believe you'd do such a thing to your poor cousin."

"But, what-" Merry started to ask as he climbed to his feet, but she glared at him, and he quickly understood he would be taking his life into his hands if he stayed a moment longer. He shoved Pippin out the door and closed it behind them.

Rosie fell to her knees beside the bed and peered beneath. "Mr. Frodo, it's all right, it's Rosie," she said gently. She gradually discerned his huddled form against the wall, stiff with panic and anxiety. A pair of frightened eyes glanced her way, then the form shuddered and the eyes vanished into the darkness.

Shaking her head in dismay, Rosie stood and thought about what to do. They had startled him good and proper, and it may be hours before he came back to himself and realized where he was. In the meantime, it was best to let him be, for any attempt to bring him back only sent his mind farther into whatever place it fled at times like these. But she did have an idea.

Merry and Pippin watched her leave the room, go into the kitchen, then return with a bowl and went back into Frodo's room. When she reappeared, closing the door gently behind her, Merry approached her with some trepidation. "We're sorry for whatever we managed to do . . . what _did_ we manage to do?"

She beckoned them into the kitchen. As she kneaded the dough, she explained, "He startles very easy, and when he is startled, he goes . . . some other place. We can't rouse him, and trying sends him further away. So we must leave him be until he comes back on his own."

"So he has one of his fits?" Pippin asked.

"Oh, no, he's never violent. He's just not here in his head."

"I'm very sorry," Merry said sincerely. "We had no idea."

"If you'd listened, you wouldn't have needed to find out," she pointed out frostily, punching the dough. "I hope the both of you listen to your wives better than that."

Neither of them answered; they knew better than to try.

Frodo lay, petrified in fear, until he began to grow cold from the stone floor. Slowly his senses made him aware that his mind's perception of orcs and a tower did not match reality. For one thing, there was a faint smell of . . . pineapple? Cold and hunger prompted him to gradually uncurl and venture in the direction of that scent.

When he poked his head out from under the bed, there on the floor was a bowl with a slice of pineapple. He touched it hesitantly, then picked it up and took a bite. Yes, definitely pineapple like they'd had yesterday for his birthday. Frodo slid fully out from under the bed and sat himself against the edge of the bed while he finished eating the pineapple piece.

The bowl he slid up onto the bed so he wouldn't have to bend over to pick it up later, then he crawled over to a chair and used it to painfully pull himself off the floor. When he was finally sitting on the chair, he stayed there for quite some time, panting with the effort and trying to ignore the pain of his stiff joints and muscles. He tried to grasp the cup of tea he saw on his table, but he didn't get a good enough grip and ended up knocking it on the floor instead, where the cup shattered. Frodo sighed in frustration and left it there.

At length, he shakily pushed himself up enough to pull his nightshirt off and drop it on the tea puddle. His clothes for the day were folded over the back of the chair on which he sat, so he slowly pulled on his shirt, then fed his feet through the trouser legs; with one hand he held on to the trousers while he pushed himself off the chair with the other and awkwardly pulled up the trousers. He slid the braces onto his shoulders so his pants would stay put while he fastened them, then he tried to button the shirt, but his fingers weren't up to the task.

Frodo leaned heavily on his cane as he hobbled to the kitchen, where Rosie looked upset and Merry and Pippin were silent and downcast. "Whatever they did, I don't think they meant to," Frodo said lightly.

"I tell them to wake you gently, and they go and startle you senseless. They ought to be ashamed of themselves," Rosie said tartly, then her expression softened. "You're back much sooner than I expected, Mr. Frodo. How are you feeling?"

"I smelled pineapple," Frodo said simply, handing her the empty bowl. "I'm stiff and somewhat cold, but I'll recover."

"We really are sorry, Frodo," Pippin told him morosely. "We didn't mean any harm."

"I know you didn't, Pip," Frodo assured him. "If you want to make it up to me, you can put some water on to heat for a bath."

Merry and Pippin were both on their feet in an instant. "Anything you want, Frodo. Here, sit down. There's tea on the table," Merry said, holding out his chair for Frodo to sit on.

Frodo sat down and shakily clutched the teacup Merry left behind without lifting it from the table. Rosie waited until the other two were out of hearing range and asked gently, "How are you really feeling? You look like you're hurtin' something fierce."

Frodo nodded. "I-I dropped the teacup in my room. I'm sorry."

"Don't worry about it, dear," Rosie said, patting his hand. "What hurts the most?"

Frodo shrugged helplessly. "I don't know, I just ache all over."

"The bath ought to do you good, then. Did you want me to help you with the getting in and out?"

"No, I'll have them help me, you have enough to be doing. Isn't it wash day?"

"Aye, the lasses are out doing the wash. Some nonsense about being outside to see certain lads go by," she said chuckling.

"My nightshirt should be added to the batch, then. I put it on the tea I spilled so it wouldn't make a bigger mess."

"Bless your heart. I'll have one of them fetch it and clean up the pieces." She called out the back door and Goldi came to do her bidding. The lass left a short while later, the tea-stained nightshirt in her hand.

Merry came to tell Frodo the bathwater was ready, and offered insistently to carry Frodo to the bathing room. Frodo acquiesced, bracing himself for it to hurt terribly, but Merry was very gentle and did not jar him enough to be painful. Pippin was hovering in the bathing room, building up the fire and making sure the tub's water was steaming. Frodo directed Merry to put him down on the stool next to the tub.

"I'll need a hand into the tub, but you may not want to watch me undress. I'm not much to look at," Frodo said, shrugging off the shirt he'd never managed to button up. He stood, one hand on the edge of the tub, and unfastened his trousers and his drawers. Frodo stepped one foot into the deliciously warm water, then said, "A hand, please?" Merry stood behind him and offered his hand, which Frodo used to steady himself as he stepped the other foot in, then sank down into the water. "Oh, this is lovely," he sighed.

"Will you need help getting out?" Merry asked.

"Most likely, but I won't be getting out for a good long time," Frodo replied. "You don't have to stay here in the meantime."

"Call when you need us, we'll be nearby," Merry promised and led Pippin out, leaving the door open a crack. They went a short distance down the hallway and sat against the wall. Merry said nothing and Pippin was uncharacteristically quiet, both thinking about Frodo.

Frodo found that he couldn't quite get comfortable for as much as the warmth loosened him up a considerable bit. Still, he remained in the water until his skin grew wrinkly and water-logged and the water cooled considerably. He was getting ready to call Merry and Pippin when Merry stuck his head in. "Ready to be done?"

"Yes, I think so."

Merry came in and closed the door behind him to keep the warmth in, and held out the towel that had been warming by the fire. "Can you stand up in the tub, or how do you want to do this?" Frodo cautiously stood, and Merry wrapped him in the towel, lifting his slight weight out of the tub and placing him on the rug in front of the fire. "If you can stand there a moment, I'll fetch the stool for you," Merry offered.

"I can stand on my own," Frodo confirmed. "I could get dressed standing, if you help me step into my trousers."

"Certainly," Merry said. Frodo rubbed himself with the towel, then gestured for his shirt. He managed the buttons marginally better than earlier that morning, and eventually Merry stepped in and buttoned the ones he missed. Then Merry knelt in front of Frodo and held out his underdrawers so that Frodo could hold on to his shoulders while stepping into them. Merry did the same with the trousers, and Frodo was soon fully dressed and buttoned.

"Thank you, Merry," Frodo said appreciatively, but still painfully self-conscious. "I know it must be difficult to look at me these days."

"No more so than before," Merry replied lightly, grinning mischievously.

"You're so kind," Frodo said, then laughed.

Frodo felt marginally better from his bath and the tea Rosie handed him when he returned to the kitchen, so he was able to pass a reasonably pleasant day with his cousins on this last day before they must depart. They said their farewells after supper, and promised to visit Frodo around Yule if they didn't see him before then. Frodo was glad they came, but had to admit he was grateful when they left. It was exhausting to be in their company, and he didn't feel he could excuse himself like he did with Sam and Rosie, especially since they'd come specifically to see him!

It took the better part of a week for him to feel truly rested and recovered from their visit, but Frodo decided the lovely birthday was worth the temporary aches and pains.


	4. Old Troubles

Rating for this part: G

Wordcount: 2,614 for this part

Chapter Summary: A bit of the old troubles returns; Frodo and Frodo-lad have a discussion.

* * *

Sam awoke abruptly. He lay in the pre-dawn stillness of the slumbering smial, listening intently. What had woken him? No misplaced sounds could be heard, so he decided to get up to find what was bothering him. He crawled carefully out of bed so as not to disturb Rosie, and stiffly reached for his dressing-gown. Shrugging it on as he left the room, he closed the door behind him and stood in the silent corridor.

There. What was that? Quiet whimpers floated to his ears and his feet moved of their own accord down the hall toward his childrens' rooms. Perhaps one of them was having a bad dream. But when he peered into each of the rooms, all were sleeping peacefully.

As he closed the last door, he heard the voice again, this time in a strangled cry of pain. Sam's throat went dry and he felt his heart would stop as he recognized that voice, that cry. Frodo.

It seemed forever until he was standing before the closed door. He yearned to dash inside, but restrained himself and cautiously, quietly, opened the door. They all knew that startling Frodo could have bad results.

The room was dim; he could vaguely see the form curled up in bed with its back to him. "Frodo?" he softly called and was not answered, so he ventured inside. "Frodo?" he repeated, approaching the bed worriedly. Still no answer. Frodo was mumbling something he couldn't understand and seemed to be shivering, though whether in cold or fright Sam didn't know. Thinking it a nightmare, he touched Frodo's shoulder to rouse him, and was caught completely by surprise by what followed.

Frodo shrieked at the touch and scrambled to escape it, falling off the other side of the bed in his haste. As Sam came to the other side, Frodo still tried to widen the distance between them by backing into the corner and huddling there, watching Sam's approach with wide-eyed trepidation. Sam was utterly confused by this behavior, for it wasn't the same reactions as when he was startled. Sam wasn't sure _what_ this was.

Frodo continued to shrink back into the corner whenever Sam tried to get closer, so he stopped and merely stood there, trying to understand what was going on. Frodo was shaking and panting in what could only be interpreted as terror, his right hand clutching the front of his nightshirt, and his unblinking eyes staring in Sam's direction. Sam took a step; Frodo seemed to wilt a bit more, his mumbling becoming audible as "Nononononono...."

"Mr. Frodo? It's your Sam," he tried, but the other remained unmoved.

"Sam? What's wrong?" asked a sleepy voice from the doorway, and both hobbits in the room jumped. Sam kept his eyes on Frodo, watching him grow more agitated as Rosie entered the room. "Sam?" she asked again, concern evident in her voice.

"Don't come any closer," he warned, and immediately the sound of her feet shuffling across the floor ceased. "Something's got him bothered," he added in answer to her question, "but I don' know what 'tis."

"What should we do?"

He watched as Frodo closed his eyes and moved his hand to his shoulder, obviously in pain. A hazy idea began to form in the back of Sam's mind. "What is the date?"

His question was lost in the shuffle as several of his sleepy children came to the door. "What's going on?" asked Frodo-lad, then yawned.

But his father had no time to respond, for as soon as Frodo heard the new voice, he seemed to panic, climbing unsteadily to his feet before dashing toward the fireplace. Sam tried to catch him as he want past but was too slow. Frodo-lad and the other boys ran to their father's aid, but all took a step back when Frodo grabbed the fireplace poker and brandished it threateningly. "Stay away!" he cried, wild-eyed.

"Mr. Frodo, put that down," Sam pleaded. As Frodo turned on him, anger in his eyes, Frodo-lad took advantage of the opportunity and grabbed his namesake's arm. Frodo dropped the poker and began to fight like a mad thing as they tried to restrain him.

"Be careful, I think you're hurtin' him," Sam cautioned as his sons wrestled Frodo to the floor.

"He's stronger than he used to be," Frodo-lad grunted as he fought to keep his hold on the squirming hobbit. By now the commotion had woken the rest of the children, all of whom were crowding in the doorway. As soon as Rosie stopped watching the struggle long enough to realize they were there, she turned and, blocking their view of the room, told them, "Go back to bed, dears. Rose-lass, would you take them and come back?" Her daughter nodded and herded her siblings back to the bedrooms with practiced ease. Tom, however, would not budge.

"Mamma, what's wrong with Uncle Frodo?" he asked, tears running freely down his face. "I thought he was better."

Rosie knelt and held him close, weeping as well. "He will be better," she soothed, desperately wanting to believe it herself. "Sometimes when a body is sick, it comes back like, but then it goes away for good. Now go back to bed so we can help him." Still tearful, the lad nodded and slowly retreated down the hall.

When she again turned around, they had Frodo pinned on the floor, all three older lads practically sitting on him to hold him down, and Sam was kneeling by Frodo's head, speaking soothingly to him. Rosie took charge of the situation. "Lads, can ye get him in bed?"

Frodo-lad shook his head curtly from where he was perched over Frodo's shoulders, pinning down his arms. "Nay. He's still fightin' us."

Upon a closer look she could see the truth in her son's words. Frodo was completely tense and would twitch on occasion to test his captors' hold. His chest heaved as he panted for breath and his pained expression bore traces of tears.

"Shall I fetch the sedative?" asked Rose-lass from the door. Rosie hesitated, not as willing to use it now that Frodo had been doing so well, but at length she nodded. There was no other way they'd be able to get any more rest this night.

As was usual, Frodo resisted being given the draught, still murmuring his seemingly endless litany of "Nonononono..." At length enough of the tonic found its way down his throat that he went limp under the restraining hands. By the time they settled him back in bed, all were yawning in weariness. The lads turned to go, and Rose-lass spoke abruptly. "I'll stay with him."

Her father tried to object, but she would not be swayed. "You need your rest so if he needs you later, you can be here. Right now he'll just sleep." So it was that she sat by the bed in the grey hours of morning, watching her charge as he slept uneasily, often reaching for his shoulder with a moan. At length she decided to see if there was actually anything wrong with the joint, and it was in doing so that she discovered his entire left arm was frigidly cold.

Given the restless nature of his slumber and the possibility of the scanty sedative dose wearing off at any moment, she was loath to leave him long enough to warm some towels, but she also didn't want to leave that pain unsoothed. As the grey fingers of dawn began to creep across the eastern sky, she decided to lie next to him in hopes the warmth of her body would serve until the rest of her family was awake and could assist him.

As her weight made the mattress sink, he turned toward her and for a moment the panicked thought that he was going to attack her made her freeze. But he seemed to settle back into deep sleep, so she scolded herself for being unreasonable and carefully finished getting onto the bed. She gently placed the cold limb between her body and his, lying on her side so she could hold his hand in both of hers. Whether due to the added warmth or just the comforting presence, Frodo's sleep was not as restless and Rose-lass began to grow sleepy herself.

When she awoke, there was a quilt tucked over her, and she turned to see her father sitting in the chair next to the bed. "Mornin', lass," he greeted her, and teased, "Get tired of watching?"

Her sleep-befuddled mind completely missed the joke, so she replied, "His arm was cold, and I didn't want to leave 'im to get warm towels and whatnot."

Sam was instantly serious. "Is it still cold?" he pressed anxiously.

"Not near so bad, but 'tis a far cry from bein' warm."

Sam's suspicions from earlier that morning came again to his mind. "And his shoulder?"

"Like ice," she confirmed.

"Lass, what is the date?"

His daughter's face creased in thought. "The... sixth, I think."

With that bit of information, everything clicked into place and Sam scolded himself for not understanding sooner. "Stay there, lass. I'll be back in a moment," he instructed as he hurried to the door. He found Rosie in the kitchen, and she helped him warm some towels and quilts and prepare some hot water bottles.

The rest of the day passed uneventfully for the most part, the only disturbance being when they tried to spoon-feed Frodo some warm broth. He fought it, crying out against the intrusion, and started becoming violent, so they stopped trying and let him return to his dark dreams. Sam hovered anxiously near the bed all day, and watched late into the night; his vigilance was rewarded when Frodo roused shortly after midnight.

Blinking groggily, he asked hoarsely, "What's going on?"

"You've... been ill."

Frodo sighed in resignation. "How bad was it?"

"Not too bad," Sam replied optimistically.

Frodo licked his lips before speaking again. "Sam, don't lie to me. You had to drug me, so don't tell me it wasn't bad."

"It don' matter," Sam insisted. "'Twas an anniversary, but you'll be better now."

* * *

Frodo did seem to return to normal once that day passed, so it was without too much guilt that Sam and Rose took the children to market two days later. Despite Frodo's protests that he would be fine, they left Frodo-lad in case anything should happen. Neither was too comfortable with the arrangement and silence reigned as each minded his own business.

For a while Frodo tried to read, but found his attention wavering both under the influence of his turbulent thoughts and as a result of Frodo-lad sulking on the other side of the sitting room. At length he set aside the book and rose.

"Where are you going?" asked a disinterested voice from behind him as he left the room.

"The privy," he said dismissively. He really was going there, but after that... he hadn't decided yet. He needed to think about things... having reverted to his madness -no matter how short the time- threw everything into chaos and made him wonder if it really had gone away for good or if this was just a short respite so the memories of it could torment him in future fits.

When Mr. Frodo -he refused to call him Uncle Frodo as his youngest siblings did- failed to reappear after quite some time had passed, Frodo-lad heaved himself off the couch with a sigh and reluctantly went to find the mad hobbit. His concern mounted when he failed to find the older hobbit in the privy, the study, the bedroom... his heart sank as he realized his da would throttle him good if he lost poor, dear Mr. Frodo! He returned to the front of the smial, carefully checking every room as he worked his way back. As he approached the last few rooms, he was getting desperate for he'd seen no trace of him.

But then he noticed the door to the far back room -Mr. Frodo's former room- was open just a crack. His eyes gradually adjusted to the dark hallway so that when he ventured to poke his head into the room he could see Mr. Frodo's white shirt gleaming in the darkness as he huddled in the far corner on the other side of his old bed. "Why are you in here?" Frodo-lad asked in irritation.

"It seems this is where I belong," replied the brittle voice. "I do not deserve to be amongst the others."

"I certainly won't disagree," he muttered sarcastically, not fully intending for the other to hear, but not caring if he did.

And he did hear. "This would have been over long ago, were it my choice," he mused quietly, choosing his words carefully for the lad's ears. "Many times I have pleaded with your father to let me go, to end it, but he has refused." He sighed wistfully. "So I remain."

"You were out of your head. He didn't believe you meant it," Frodo-lad countered defensively.

"You mean he didn't *want* to believe I meant it," Mr. Frodo corrected. Then he asked, "Do you think I am out of my head?"

"N-now?"

"Yes, right now."

"I... I don't know... You've been out of your head so long it's hard to imagine you otherwise." He didn't fully realize what he was saying until after he'd blurted it, and he clapped his hand over his mouth in distress. "I'm sorry!" he cried. "Oh, I've made a mess of things an' no mistake." To his surprise, he heard a humorless chuckle from the other side of the room.

"I won't hold that against you, lad, and I appreciate the honesty. It is useful to know how others see me." He sighed again, and added, "There is truth in it."

Frodo-lad didn't know what else to say or even what to think, so he remained silent. After a while, Mr. Frodo said, "Tell me, what did you think of the Red Book?"

He didn't want to admit that he'd been enraptured by many parts of that monumental story, so he said, "It seems hard to believe all that actually happened."

"It does defy belief, doesn't it?" Mr. Frodo mused aloud. "Yet you trust it happened, because your father wouldn't tell such tales if they weren't true."

"I don't know that Da agrees with how you wrote it," he said quickly.

"It was your Da's memories that I put to paper, lad. Much of what happened to us I still don't remember clearly. He would even say I didn't include everything, especially near the Mountain."

"Were you mad then, too?" Frodo-lad couldn't help but ask the older hobbit still cowering in the corner.

Mr. Frodo chuckled again. "Yes, I suppose I was, in a manner of speaking. I believe what I experienced then is what made me go mad here."

Frodo-lad was saved from any more of the conversation by the front door opening to admit the rest of his family. With a brief glance back at Mr. Frodo, he went to greet his parents and dutifully help put their purchases away.

But he found his mind straying to that conversation, to the story in that large book, for the rest of the day. If what Mr. Frodo said was true about the memories coming from Frodo's da, not Mr. Frodo, then Frodo-lad *could* accept them as wholly true. But what would that mean? Knowing it to be true meant that Mr. Frodo actually suffered all those dreadful things, and would it really be a surprise that someone could go mad from it? It needed some serious thought.


	5. Winter Blues

Rating: G for this part

Wordcount: 3,312 for this part

Chapter Summary: Winter sets in, and Frodo finds his health is not what it was.

* * *

Frodo never quite regained his full health after his October illness. His bad days were more numerous and severe, requiring that he stay abed rather than simply needing the cane to move around. The cane was a constant presence now, even on his best days. The colder weather of that time of year did not help, and as Yule approached, Frodo grew discouraged and despaired of ever feeling truly like himself again. He did not express his frustration to Sam and Rosie, knowing all too well that they would only fret more about him, and they had Yule preparations to concern them.

His one satisfaction in the dreary winter days was that he could entertain the children with his stories, for he needed only to sit and talk, which he could do on all but the very worst days. When the weather was blustery, the young ones would settle around him for the next part of The Story, as Frodo had taken to calling the tales in the Red Book which he had begun telling with Sam's permission. He would omit some of the most frightening portions, of course, when he got to them, but he'd only just made it through Bilbo's adventure and begun his own. They had made it all the way to Bree (only skimming over the Barrow-wights) when Primrose, Ruby, and Tom came down with the latest illness making its rounds through the Hobbiton youngsters.

Tom, of course, begged that Frodo come and tell them more of The Story while they were on strict bed rest. Rosie disapproved of this idea, for Frodo had come down with every single illness the children had brought home so far that winter and was only just getting over the most recent cold. When Tom's illness developed into a mild case of the lung sickness, Rosie strictly forbade Frodo from going into any of the children's rooms, for she was acutely aware of what the lung sickness could mean for a hobbit with Frodo's poor health -it had taken her mother.

Try as she would, Rosie couldn't keep Frodo from going to see Tom once the healer declared the lad was on the mend about a week before Yule. Several of his older siblings had picked up the original ailment while Tom was quite ill, but all of them recovered fairly quickly and Frodo appeared to be unaffected, so Rosie hoped for the best. She let her children gather in the room where Tom was resting to listen to Frodo's next story installment.

When Frodo remained healthy (for him, anyway) in the days leading up to Yule despite telling a story in the sickroom each evening, Rosie assumed all would be well with him and focused on the last preparations for the holiday. Merry and Pippin were due to visit from Tuckborough with their families on the first day of Yule and return to Tuckborough immediately after, then the family would go to Marigold and Tom's house in Bywater on the second day for a gathering of the remaining Cottons and Gamgees, while the third day would be spent at Bag End with just their family, a quieter day to recover from the previous two. Rosie would have preferred to have the calmer day in between the other two, for Frodo's sake, but this was the only way it would work for most of her family and Sam's.

First Yule dawned clear and cold, a light layer of snow on the ground. Rosie let Frodo sleep through second breakfast, for Merry and Pippin weren't due until luncheon. Frodo felt reasonably well when he rose, and looked forward to seeing Merry's and Pippin's children, though he wondered what they would think of old cousin Frodo.

The arrival of the day's guests began chaos that did not end until they left after supper. Pippin's son Faramir seemed to be taking a fancy to Goldilocks, and they spent much of the day huddled in corners, whispering to one another. Merry's three lads enjoyed tearing around the smial with Sam's lads and they hardly even acknowledged Frodo, though he watched them with amusement. The womenfolk spent most of their time in the kitchen, so Frodo didn't see Diamond or Estella much besides at meals, but he spent several hours in deep conversation with Merry, Pippin, and Sam.

As befitted the occasion, food was plentiful and served frequently. Frodo did his best to keep up with the appetites of the others, feeling self-conscious about his meagre appetite in front of Diamond and Estella, and ate until he felt almost ill at each meal. By the end of the day, he felt distinctly unwell and was relieved when Merry and Pippin and their families left. He retired almost as soon as the door shut behind them, saying he'd eaten too much and needed to lie down, which Rosie could easily believe.

Changing out of his clothes resulted in the undeniable need to retch into his chamberpot. That helped relieve some of the pressure, but his stomach felt uncomfortable afterward, persisting even as he fell asleep.

When he woke to the sounds of Sam's family loading the wagon and preparing for a day at the Cotton's, he still didn't feel well. The discomfort lingered in his stomach and seemed to radiate into his chest as well. Besides that he was quite achy and stiff, and the thought of going out into the cold was extremely unappealing.

Rosie was surprised to see him awake when she came to rouse him, but was sympathetic when he explained his trouble. "If you would rather stay home and rest, I won't say you nay. I feared the two parties in a row would be too much for you, so this might be better. A quiet day to rest certainly wouldn't hurt."

Frodo had to agree, and she told him to rest easy. She evidently told Sam he wouldn't be coming, for Sam came to check on him shortly afterward. "Will you be all right here alone?" he asked worriedly.

"Yes, Sam, I'll be quite all right. I expect I'll hardly budge from this bed, so there's not much trouble I can get into," Frodo reassured him with a smile.

"If you say so," Sam said uncertainly. "We'll be back by early evening, I expect. I think Rosie is getting out a little food for you if you get hungry."

"I really doubt it, considering one of my complaints is having overeaten yesterday, but I appreciate the thought," Frodo replied. "Really, Sam, I will be fine."

Frodo rose and pulled on his dressing gown to see them off, but returned directly to bed afterward. He slept for several hours, rising only to attend to certain bodily functions. He felt a little dizzy, perhaps, as he took care of that business and ventured a brief trip to the kitchen for more water, but he dismissed it as lingering exhaustion.

Nearly the entire day was spent in sleep, with the few waking periods devoted to spending time on the indoor privy pot in the bathing room. It seemed his body was reacting to the excess of rich food yesterday by expelling it, which Frodo considered a perfectly acceptable solution. If it was no longer in him, he would no longer feel ill from it. At some point he noticed it was getting dark outside, so the family would be returning sooner or later.

Sam and Rosie arrived back at Bag End later than anticipated, and they sent their overtired brood straight to bed. Sam tended to the wagon and ponies while Rosie took the few leftovers into the hole. After putting the platters in the pantry, she looked in on Frodo. He was sound asleep, snoring softly; she smiled and closed the door, hoping he would feel much improved on the morrow.

Sam volunteered to wake Frodo the next morning -the task usually fell to Rosie as Sam was often called away from home on business. Frodo was twitching slightly in his sleep, so Sam gently stroked his face to coax him toward wakefulness. The sleeper's eyes slowly opened, and he smiled. "Sam," he said groggily.

"Good morning, Mr. Frodo. Did your day of rest help?"

"I think so," Frodo said slowly. "I have to get up before I'll know for sure." He propped himself up on his elbows, sniffling a bit. "My stomach feels better, but it should, since it should be pretty well empty by now."

"We'll need to remedy that," Sam teased. "Will you need help getting up?"

"No, I don't think so."

"I'll let you get dressed then, and we'll see you in a little while." The door closed and Frodo flopped back down on his pillow. He felt a vague sense of uneasiness, but couldn't pinpoint the source, for he truly was feeling better than he had the day before.

That feeling persisted through the morning, and with a bit of effort he ignored it. He didn't eat much, not wanting to renew the misery from yesterday, but ate enough that Sam didn't try to convince him to have more. Despite the day of sleep, he took an afternoon nap as usual and found upon waking that the uneasiness must have been the early signs of illness, for he now felt like he had a full-blown cold.

Frodo avoided Rosie as long as he could, knowing what she would say about this new development. Indeed, her reaction when he sat down for tea was about what he expected: she looked disapproving and wagged her finger at him as if chiding him without words, and he was sure she would say more when they weren't surrounded by children. So he remained at the table and waited as the young, satiated hobbits dispersed.

"Frodo Baggins, you know what I told you about being around the sick 'uns," she scolded. "How long have you been feeling poorly?"

"Like this? Just since I woke from my nap."

"You weren't feeling ill yesterday?" she persisted.

"Only from eating too much," he said honestly, and sneezed.

She crossed her arms and looked at him closely. "All right, then. I want you either in bed or resting in the sitting room until we know if this is just a cold or what the little ones had a few weeks ago."

Frodo nodded meekly. Truth be told, he didn't feel like doing much of anything with his head all stuffed up as it was. So he spent most of the next several days in the sitting room -while he would rest better in his room, that would also separate him from the goings-on of the family- soiling numerous handkerchiefs with his congested nose. While he did not feel particularly ill (he could definitely remember occasions where he'd felt worse), he also did not feel particularly well; this affected his appetite in the negative direction and greatly increased the amount of sleep he sought each day. But overall, he knew it could be much worse.

Then he woke up with his chest aching in addition to his head, and he knew it had gotten worse. He was able to suppress the coughs for the first day or two, and spent much more time in his bedroom rather than the sitting room, but Rosie, that quick-witted, sharp-eyed mother of many, noticed that he seemed to be fevering and cornered him in his room after she woke him the next morning. "Cough for me," she instructed once she was sure Frodo was awake.

He looked at her beseechingly, and shook his head no.

"Why not? Because it will hurt? Or because you know it sounds like the lung sickness?"

Frodo simply nodded.

"And you ain't talking because that will make you cough."

Frodo nodded again.

She sighed and felt his forehead. "I'll send for the healer, see if there's anything I should do for you aside from what we did for Tom."

Frodo made the mistake of sighing at her cool touch and spent the next minute or two coughing until he could hardly breathe. Rosie hauled him upright to help stop the coughing and listened carefully to the coughs and the sounds between them. When he stopped, she made him drink some water before lying back down.

"I'll get you a few more pillows so you're not lying so flat; that should help," she said. "I won't lie to you, Mr. Frodo: it don't sound good to my ears, but we'll see what the healer says. I hope you'll be lucky like our Tom and not need the pounding."

Frodo hoped so, too. It was always painful to be struck until you coughed up whatever was in your lungs, and with his normal aches and pains, it could be excruciating. He shuddered and desperately wished to escape that fate.

When Rosie returned with an armful of pillows, Rose-lass followed with a mug and a bowl, which she put on the bedside table while her mother put the pillows on the bed at Frodo's feet. "Would you sit up, Mr. Frodo?" Rosie asked, then cautioned, "Slowly, now."

Frodo sat up as directed, and watched as Rose-lass passed her mother several pillows, which Rosie arranged behind him.

"Lie back and tell me if that's comfortable," Rosie instructed. She kept a hand just behind his back as he laid down to help him and to feel how he settled onto the pillows. "How does that feel?"

"Better, thank you," Frodo said, shifting slightly before relaxing fully. "What are you going to do with the rest of the pillows?"

"We'll stack them on your trunk, just in case you need more behind you at some point. Right now you've only got three extra back there. Now, do you think you could eat a little something for me? Our Merry is off fetching the healer, and I'd look mighty foolish if he gets here and you haven't even eaten breakfast."

"What is it?" Frodo asked warily.

"Applesauce," she said cheerily, handing him the bowl. "And there's some chamomile tea here for you. If you want anything more substantial to eat, I'll get you whatever you would like after the healer leaves."

"This is more than enough for now, thank you," Frodo said, slowly and carefully lifting the spoon to his mouth.

"Can you reach the mug all right?"

Frodo looked at it, reached out experimentally, then nodded.

"Then if you're set, I'll be back when the healer arrives," Rosie said.

"I'll be right here," Frodo said with a wan smile. Rosie patted his leg and left, followed by Rose, and closed the door almost all the way.

When she returned to make sure he was awake -the healer had arrived and would be in shortly after he warmed his hands in the kitchen- he had just finished the applesauce and was sipping his tea. Rosie led the healer to Frodo's room, explaining what she knew of this current illness and his previous health, then leaving the two alone.

"Well, Mr. Baggins, Mistress Gamgee tells me that you're feeling a mite unwell," healer Toby Mugwort said briskly, setting his bag on the bed at Frodo's feet. "Tell me what's been going on."

Frodo described his cold, and the tightness in his chest and the coughing of the past two days. Toby nodded and felt Frodo's pulse point as Frodo talked, then picked at the skin of Frodo's hand before speaking again. "If you'll lean forward, I'd like to have a listen," he said, pulling a cup-like instrument from his bag. It took a little effort, but Frodo obeyed and leaned his elbows on his legs to keep him upright while Toby did his listening. "Can you cough?" Frodo chuckled -what a silly question!- and started coughing as a result.

When Frodo was no longer coughing and settled back on the pillows, Toby spoke. "You need to drink more fluids, but you do not at this moment have the lung sickness. If you don't want to get it, you will remain in bed and not exert yourself in any way for at least two weeks. If you don't have any questions, I need to give Mistress Gamgee some instructions for your care."

"I have no questions," Frodo said quietly.

"Then I'll see you in a week or so." Toby closed Frodo's door behind him, and found Mistress Gamgee in the kitchen. "It is not the lung sickness. Yet," he told her as he sat at the table. "Right now it's simply a chest cold, but it could easily become worse. I've told him he must be on complete bed rest for at least two weeks to prevent it, but . . . "

"He could still get worse," Rosie supplied.

"Yes," he said, relieved that she understood. "Allow me to be honest: with his . . . other difficulties, I expect him to develop the lung sickness within the week even with bed rest. I'll send you more of that salve for his sores when I have it ready; you'll probably need it."

Rosie nodded and set a cup of tea and a plate of cookies in front of him. "Is there anything else I should know?"

"He's dehydrated. You'll need to have him drink as much water, broth, and the like, as he can."

"Easier said than done, but I'll do my best. His appetite isn't good."

"So I would guess, by looking at him," Toby said wryly. "He looks like he'd blow away in a stiff breeze."

"Aye, that he does," Rosie agreed sadly. "But he can do quite a bit for himself in spite of that. Is he permitted to take a bath if someone carries him to it? His baths can be the only way to help with his pain."

"If he does not exert himself in doing so, yes, taking baths is acceptable. The steam should help his breathing, as well."

"Good, he'll be pleased."

"Thank you for the tea and cookies, but I should be going," he said, rising. "I'll return in a week to check on him, but send for me if his illness gets worse before then."

"Of course. Thank you," Rosie said, walking with him to the front door. When the healer had departed, Rosie peeked in on Frodo. He was awake, so she went in. "Do you need me to bring you anything?" she asked, brushing his hair off of his face. His skin felt warm to the touch.

"No, thank you," he said quietly.

"Not even a book?" she teased gently.

He smiled slightly. "Now that you mention it, that might be a good idea. And perhaps some water -he said I need to drink more."

"Yes, he told me that, too. I'll get you some water and a book, then, and let you rest."


	6. An Understanding

Rating: G for this part

Wordcount: 3,398 for this part

Chapter Summary: Frodo and Frodo-lad come to an understanding; Rosie tries to keep Frodo comfortable despite his slowly worsening condition.

* * *

For six days Frodo grew no worse and no better. He merely . . . existed, alternately sleeping and reading and eating -well, drinking, as most of what he was brought was liquid- and, every so often, taking a bath. During his first bath, Rosie and Rose-lass changed the sheets on his bed and laid folded flannel lengths where Frodo would lie. This extra padding helped cushion him and delay the formation of additional pressure sores in addition to being warmer and feeling softer against his skin. All in all, he was quite cozy in bed, but that didn't stop him from occasionally wishing for a change of scenery. Which was why he loved his baths even more than usual.

Frodo-lad was not pleased to be assigned to bath duty. It would have been one thing to merely carry Mr. Frodo from bedroom to bathing room and back again, since it wasn't difficult with how light Mr. Frodo was, but he had to help him undress, put him in the tub, watch to make sure he didn't slip or anything, then lift him out and help him dress again. He didn't like doing it, didn't like having to see Mr. Frodo naked -not that he stared or anything, but he had to have his eyes open to put him down and pick him up, after all- and didn't like being ordered to do it by his mother, who knew he didn't particularly like Mr. Frodo to begin with.

The first day of the new bathing arrangements Frodo-lad let go of Mr. Frodo too quickly when putting him into the tub, and Mr. Frodo slipped and hit his hip on the side of the tub. Frodo-lad gained a grudging respect for the older hobbit when Mr. Frodo didn't cry out in pain -he may be old and sickly, but he wasn't a whiner- but he didn't feel sorry for it until the next bath day, when he saw the enormous, dark bruise covering that hip. He was more careful with his charge from that point forward.

During the third bath Frodo tried to start a conversation with the lad, who normally sat silently against the wall by the door while he bathed. "How long have you been in charge of Bag End's garden?" he asked as he leaned back against the tub, breathing in the warm steam.

"I-I'm sorry?" Frodo-lad stuttered, surprised by the question.

"Sam's too busy to take care of it properly. You are outside in the garden all day every day during the growing season. So how long have you had sole responsibility for the garden?"

"A dozen years or so," he finally answered.

"And I don't fault you for avoiding me when I would come out to the garden," Frodo continued.

"Who said I avoided you?" Frodo-lad said evasively, well aware that the elder Frodo spoke the truth.

"You're the gardener, but I never saw you a single time even though I saw weeding and trimming that needed to be done. And one day I found some abandoned clippers with the verge only half tended, as if the gardener left in a great hurry."

Frodo-lad did not reply.

"What is it about me that bothers you so? Do I frighten you?"

"You frightened us all in your fits," Frodo-lad replied. "You don't frighten me now."

"Then what do you feel? Fear? Disgust? Pity?"

"I . . . don't know," he admitted.

After a lengthy silence, Frodo asked, "Would you wash my back? My arms are rather stiff today."

"I suppose," Frodo-lad said reluctantly, rising from the floor and kneeling next to the tub. Frodo offered him the lathered cloth, and he tentatively started rubbing. This gave him an opportunity to examine the scarred back in some detail, and his mind strayed back again to the Red Book. This is the whip weal, while that is the spider bite . . . Frodo was normally very careful to keep his scars covered around the children, and even in his madness he wore a nightshirt, so Frodo-lad had never seen these marks of proof that the story was true. He didn't notice that he'd stopped the washing to gently touch first one scar, then the other, until Frodo said softly, "Now do you believe the story is true?"

"Yes," Frodo-lad replied, just as softly.

"Good." Frodo abruptly stood, swaying slightly.

"Mr. Frodo, you're not supposed-" Frodo-lad started to object.

"I'm a stubborn old hobbit. I'll do it if I want to," Frodo said lightly, then added more seriously, "That was a precaution that I'm afraid has come to naught."

Frodo-lad draped the towel around him in preparation for lifting him out and asked, "What do you mean?" He didn't even finish his question before Frodo started coughing, leaning heavily on his arm. But he got his answer, for the coughs sounded different, deeper, and he understood. He waited until the agonizing sound ceased, then gently lifted him out of the tub and helped him kneel on the rug before the fire.

Frodo shivered as Frodo-lad rubbed him dry and helped him put a clean nightshirt on. "Thank you, lad," he whispered. "I'm not sure why I suddenly feel so cold."

"You're ailing," Frodo-lad said simply. "Such things happen. Though standing up in the tub without me being ready with the towel probably didn't help."

Frodo smiled weakly. "That might be part of it," he admitted.

"Come, let's get you back to your pile of blankets." He carefully lifted the other hobbit, feeling the warmth radiating from him -this, then, was the true reason for his sudden chill- and carried him to his bedroom, setting him on the waiting bed and pulling the blankets over him. Frodo-lad found he felt genuine concern about Mr. Frodo's health as he stood there, not certain if he should leave him just yet.

"Thank you, Frodo," Mr. Frodo whispered, patting his arm awkwardly. His fingers were ice cold.

"You're welcome," he said sincerely, then left to find his Mum and tell her Mr. Frodo's fever was worse.

* * *

"Then it is . . . ?"

"Aye. But it's early yet."

"What are his chances?"

"I can't say."

"Is there anything that can be done for him?"

"Keep him comfortable like you did with your lad. If he gets better, he gets better, and if not, well, he won't be long for this world, which is the outcome I expected for him a long time ago."

"Do not speak of Mr. Baggins in that manner," Rosie said forbiddingly, scowling at him. "You are being cruel to a good, kind hobbit who has suffered more than you can ever imagine."

"I did not mean to offend, Mistress Gamgee," he said quickly. "I only meant I never thought he'd live so long, with the way he was."

"I'm well aware of 'the way he was,' and I do not appreciate you saying such things in my home. If you have nothing else to tell me about what can be done to ease him, you should leave."

"As you wish," Toby said meekly, and let himself out of the smial, feeling Rosie's steely eyes boring into his back the entire way.

Rosie vented her anger by chopping the carrots and potatoes more firmly than was her wont. Rose-lass and Goldi came in from the parlor where they'd been doing the mending to find out why the healer left in such a hurry, but knew better than to ask when they saw their mother's glowering expression. "Did you need help, Mum?" Goldi asked innocently.

"I'm not the one that needs help," Rosie muttered severely, then said in her normal tone, "If you would fetch the herbs we used for Tom, we need to decide what to do for Mr. Frodo and when."

"It is the lung sickness, then?" Rose said softly, her face mirroring her mother's concern.

"Aye. 'Tis early yet, he tells me, but . . . " she trailed off and sighed; her daughters caught her meaning and exchanged a glance.

"Does Da know?" Goldi asked.

"Does Da know what?" Sam inquired as he came in the back door, stamping his feet on the rug.

Rosie beckoned for him to follow her into the pantry, where she closed the door. She told him everything from the healer's visit, including his comments about Mr. Frodo afterward and her insistence that he leave.

"That explains why young Mugwort seemed in such a tizzy when I passed him on the road," Sam said thoughtfully.

"Aye, and I'm sorry if it causes you trouble, but I couldn't stand for it!"

"I'm not asking you to, lass," Sam soothed, hugging her gently. "I would have kicked him out myself if I'd heard him say such things."

Rosie nodded against his chest. "I'm afraid for him, Sam," she said softly.

"Mr. Frodo has been unwell before; I'm sure he'll be all right," Sam said confidently. "But if it would help you, I can have Fatty step in as Deputy Mayor while Mr. Frodo's ill."

"That's right sweet of you to offer, but I don't think it's necessary just yet. He's still doing fairly well, all things considered."

There was a knock on the pantry door, and Rose said, "Mum, the tea is ready. Did you want us to take it to Uncle Frodo?"

"No, I'll be right there," Rosie replied, and kissed Sam briefly. "I ought to go look in on him, then."

"Would you like me to, instead?" Sam offered as Rosie opened the door and they re-entered the warmth of the kitchen.

"If you would like, I don't have an objection. I think he'll be happy to see you. Let me take your cloak and coat," she offered as he shed his outer garments. Sam pecked Rosie on the cheek, then left the kitchen with the teapot and cup. Rosie followed a few moments later, after giving Rose some instructions for dinner if she was delayed in returning to the kitchen.

After Rosie hung up the cloak and coat in the front hallway, she peeked into Frodo's partially open door. Sam was sitting on the edge of the bed, holding the teapot and watching Frodo intently; Frodo was clutching the cup and drinking slowly, his eyes closed. She nodded and went back to the kitchen to mind dinner.

Frodo choked a bit on the last gulp of tea -he hadn't thought there was quite that much left- but was able to swallow down the cough that wanted to follow. He let the arm with the cup fall to rest in his lap and sighed as he opened his eyes. Sam was looking into the small teapot. "Did you want more? Looks like there's enough here for another cup."

"I suppose I shouldn't let it go to waste," Frodo said, holding the cup out toward Sam.

Sam steadied it with his hand as he filled it. "Are you certain you don't want honey in that? It smells like it could use it."

"No, thank you," Frodo said patiently, resting the cup on his leg until he was ready to drink from it. "I'm so stuffed up I can't taste anything. I told you that already."

"I know, but I had to ask," Sam said sheepishly.

Frodo smiled slightly. "I know," he said lightly. He started to lift the cup to his lips but thought better of it as he felt a cough looming; instead he held the cup over the edge of the bed so it wouldn't slosh onto his bedding. He reflexively leaned forward as the cough began.

Sam quickly took the cup from Frodo's jerking fingers and slid it and the teapot onto the bedside table, then scooted forward and held Frodo's shoulders while the attack continued. At length Frodo drew back and spat into a handkerchief he kept beside him on the bed.

"Are you all right?" Sam asked as he retrieved the tea and handed it back to him.

Frodo took a sip before speaking, "I am feeling no worse than I was before."

"Will you be wanting a rubdown?" Massage was the only way they had found to keep Frodo from becoming stiff while bedridden.

"Maybe after dinner," Frodo said thoughtfully. "Rosie would scold us both if you put me to sleep just in time for a meal."

"True enough," Sam replied with a chuckle. "Will you want a bath as well?"

Frodo quickly shook his head. "I'm sure it would feel nice, but I'm not in the mood to get out of bed and get naked," he said frankly.

"But staying in bed and getting naked is all right," Sam commented.

"Yes," Frodo said simply.

Sam chuckled. "Whatever you like, then." He sobered and asked, "Did the healer say anything rude to you?"

Frodo looked surprised. "Rude? No, unless you consider talking to me as little as possible 'rude'. Why?"

"Apparently Rosie sent him away because he said some unkind things about you," Sam said uncomfortably, thinking perhaps he oughtn't have brought it up.

"What did he say, exactly?" Frodo asked curiously.

"She wouldn't tell me."

"I see. Well, he isn't all that useful at this point anyway. Rosie and your lasses know what they're doing, and all I can do is either get better or get worse."

"Then get better," Sam encouraged. Frodo inclined his head in acknowledgment as he sipped some of his nearly-cold tea. He asked about the mayoral goings-on to change the subject, and Sam happily told him about the upcoming weddings and the plans for next Lithe.

Frodo managed to hold his own for several days after the healer's visit. Though Rosie knew it was well nigh impossible, part of her hoped he would manage to pull through this somehow. She would care for him carefully in any case, but it sure would be nice not to lose him so soon after the real Mr. Frodo returned from wherever he had been all those years -it hadn't even been a full year since the madness receded.

The biggest surprise of those few days was Frodo-lad volunteering to help with Mr. Frodo. Not that Rosie wouldn't have continued to make him tend to Mr. Frodo in the bath, but now he was willing to spend time in the sickroom as well. With Sam still doing his Mayoring, having another set of willing hands was more than appreciated, though Rosie did wonder about the lad's change of heart.

Frodo, too, was somewhat surprised that Frodo-lad was now appearing in his room from time to time as one of his caregivers, but he was more inclined not to question it, particularly since the lad had a good reading voice and was willing to sit and read to him for hours. Ordinarily Frodo could have read faster by himself, but reading had become increasingly difficult of late, between eyes that did not want to seem to focus and constant headaches that battered his concentration.

The other high point of Frodo's existence (baths, while nice, were considered a necessity) was when the younger children would come to sit with him a while or just to say hullo. Young Tom liked to crawl up on the bed with Uncle Frodo and snuggle up against his side, often falling asleep there when Frodo took his little naps. Rosie did not like to encourage this, as cute as it was to see them napping together, but Frodo assured her that Tom wasn't hurting him, so she allowed Frodo to have the final say in the matter.

It was getting to be dinner time, so while Rose-lass and Goldi minded the family's food, Rosie put together a bit of applesauce, soup, toast, and tea to take in to Frodo. Tom had been with him most of the afternoon, so she planned to shoo him out to let Frodo rest and eat in peace. She was nearly finished when there was yelling in the hallway. "Ma! Ma! I think Uncle Frodo's choking!"

Rosie dropped everything and ran, meeting Tom halfway. He was white as a sheet, but he followed his mother back to Uncle Frodo's room, hoping to be able to help.

Frodo was coughing hard enough that it did sound like he was choking; Rosie sat on the edge of the bed and supported him with an arm across his chest while she rubbed his jerking back. "Tom, have Rose or Goldi bring me the hot kettle and a large towel, and tell your brothers to draw enough water for a bath," she instructed.

Tom nodded and fled. Goldi soon appeared with kettle and towel, set the kettle by the fire to stay warm while she retrieved the basin and herbs from the bedside table, then waited patiently at the end of the bed. Rosie was listening carefully to Frodo; he could not seem to get rid of whatever had lodged in his airway and caused him to start coughing, so she murmured apologies in his ear and clapped him a few times on the back. That seemed to help, and at length his breathing settled back into a wheeze.

Rosie continued rubbing his back and urged him to lean against her shoulder for a bit; he was shuddering and needed a few moments to recover before he would be able to answer any questions. Tom reappeared and sidled up to his mother. Rosie stopped rubbing Frodo's back to give him a one-armed hug. "Good lad," she said. "Will you go help Rose put dinner out? I'm going to need Goldi's help here for a few minutes. And tell Rose she can corral any of the rest of her sisters to help, too."

"Yes'm," Tom said and, casting another anxious look at Uncle Frodo, left the room.

"All right, Mr. Frodo, talk to me. Would breathing some steam help, or would it just make you cough some more?" Rosie asked.

"I don't know," Frodo replied weakly. "I suppose I could try."

"We do have water on for a bath a little later, if that changes your mind."

Frodo considered. "That might be better," he said. "I don't know if I can sit up long enough for the steam right now."

"Then let's get you settled so you can try some dinner. Goldi, thank you darling, you can take the kettle back to the kitchen for now. Leave the towel. I'll be by the kitchen in a few minutes." Once Goldi left, Rosie helped Frodo lie back on his pillows after she added another one to the heap. Once he was comfortable, she eyed him critically; his fever had worsened, she could tell that from holding him, but he looked no worse for the moment, just very tired.

"I need you to try some dinner now, do you think you can do that for me? I'll have Frodo-lad bring it in and help you. Then you can have your bath and we'll leave you alone for the night. Does that sound good?" Rosie said, fussing with his blankets.

Frodo smiled slightly. "Which part? The bath sounds very good."

"You and your baths," Rosie said fondly. "Here, drink a bit of water before I go. You're sounding a little rough." She held the cup and let him sip at it until he'd drunk about half. "That's good. Rest a bit and Frodo will be in with your dinner shortly."

It was just as well they hadn't tried to do a steam treatment, for nearly everything that evening set Frodo to coughing. The water had been fine, but the applesauce nearly choked him, he could manage the soup broth but any of the chicken or vegetable chunks were out of the question, the tea was fine but he didn't even try the toast, just in case. Then the thick air of the bathing room caught in his throat even before he got undressed, and Frodo-lad had to take him back out into the hallway before he could catch his breath. A second try of the bathing room went better, and Frodo gratefully settled into the hot water. He nearly fell asleep, he was so exhausted, and Frodo-lad had to convince him that perhaps it's time to go back to bed, if he's so sleepy and all. Frodo fell asleep in Frodo-lad's arms on the way back to his room; Frodo-lad settled him in bed as gently as he could manage and stayed to watch over him for a while.


	7. Routines

Rating: PG for this part

Wordcount: 2,825 for this part

Chapter Summary: The household adjusts to caring for Frodo.

* * *

Sam arrived home two evenings later from a trip to the Southfarthing, and a weary-looking Rosie met him at the door. "I think you'll need to let Fatty handle things for a while," she said as she pecked him on the cheek.

"He's gotten that much worse in three days?" Sam asked in disbelief as he hung his cloak and coat on their pegs.

"His fever's worse, he's been coughing almost constantly for two days without much to show for it, and he weren't that hale to begin with," Rosie replied, perhaps a bit heatedly. "You can go see him for yourself, but he sure ain't well."

Sam kissed her. "I'm sorry, I do believe you. I'm only that surprised it got so bad so fast."

"If he weren't coughing so, it wouldn't be nearly so bad, but the poor soul can't hardly breathe sometimes and nothing seems to help."

"Has the healer been?"

"Been and gone again. He gave us a mixture for tea, but he hasn't been able to get enough down to see if it will help."

Sam hugged her tightly for a few minutes. "I'll go see him. If the coughing doesn't stop tonight, I'll send one of the lads down to Fatty in the morning and have him come by."

"Thank you." Rosie kissed him and stepped back from his embrace.

"Does anything need to be taken in to him?"

"You could see if he'll try the tea again. It's gone cold, but it may be better so." Rosie pointed to the counter where the smallest teapot still sat upon a tray.

"I'll see what I can do," Sam promised, and left the kitchen with the tray. He encountered several of his children on the way to Frodo's room and, after one-armed hugs and kisses to foreheads, instructed each of them to go and see if their Mum needed any help. He paused outside the almost-closed bedroom door a moment, and heard Frodo-lad's voice reading. He nudged the door open enough that he could stand in the doorway while Frodo-lad finished the section; it sounded like he was reading from one of Bilbo's translations of Elvish history. Sam watched Frodo as he listened and thought he looked feverish and tired, and his breathing sounded labored, but at least he wasn't coughing for the moment.

When Frodo-lad's voice stopped, Sam cleared his throat and entered the room. Both Frodos looked up at him in surprise. "Well, lad, it seems you've been hiding a good storytelling voice all these years. We'll have to make you in charge of bedtime stories from now on," he said with a wink. Frodo-lad blushed and fidgeted in his seat. "Go on and see if your Mum needs you. I'll sit with Mr. Frodo a spell."

"I'm surprised to see you back," Frodo said very quietly. "Wasn't your trip supposed to be three days?"

"It was three days," Sam replied as he settled in the chair Frodo-lad had vacated.

Frodo frowned. "It seems I'm losing time again," he said unhappily, the last word catching in his throat and setting him to coughing.

Sam moved to the bed to hold him for what turned out to be a relatively short bout, then poured a cup of the tea and urged him to try it. "The worst that can happen is it will make you cough again, which will probably happen anyway."

"I know, but the coughing in either case is unpleasant," Frodo whispered. "My head pounds, my entire body hurts, and my throat feels like it's on fire." But he took the mug and sipped it, coughing a little from the feel of liquid on his throat, and managed to drink most of it before another spasm got him going again.

Sam held the mug and anxiously watched as Frodo coughed and hacked until he finally spit something out in a handkerchief. Frodo seemed to wilt then, and Sam moved a little closer so Frodo could rest on his shoulder. He could feel Frodo's heart race and how he panted for air in quick, shallow gasps. "Try taking a few deeper breaths," he encouraged. "You're like to make yourself pass out, breathing like that."

Inwardly Frodo sighed -doesn't Sam realize he had already tried everything they could think of?- but decided to humor him and was pleasantly surprised when the result was not coughing. "That tea might just work after all," he said. "I would have been coughing by now otherwise."

"Would you like the rest?" Sam asked gently.

"I need to lie down first," Frodo replied.

"Do you need me to help you, or what's the best way to do that?" Sam began to fully realize how much he didn't know about what was currently involved in Frodo's care.

"I can do it," Frodo said, starting to pull away from him.

Sam carefully let him go and watched as Frodo leaned back, then let himself fall onto his pillows. "Well, that was simple enough," Sam commented as he poured the rest of the tea in the mug and handed it to Frodo.

"Easy for you to say," Frodo groused. He carefully drank from the mug, holding it with both hands but still managing to spill a bit on his nightshirt. He sighed. "I can't even have some tea without making a mess," he muttered darkly.

Frodo-lad appeared in the doorway. "Mum wants to know if you'll be eating with the family or in here with Mr. Frodo."

Sam felt a bit torn; Frodo stopped nursing his tea long enough to say, "Go eat with your family, Sam. You've been away and they would like to see you."

"What about your supper?" Sam asked him.

"I have supper after my bath. She seems to think I'll eat more if I'm sleepy," Frodo said with a hint of amusement.

"All right, tell your Mum I'll eat with the family," Sam told Frodo-lad. "Does someone sit with you during supper?" he asked Frodo once the lad had left.

"Frodo-lad usually eats early and then we do my bath while everyone else eats." Frodo finished the remainder of the tea and sighed experimentally, relieved when nothing happened.

The lad returned, bearing a plate of half-eaten food. "Mum says supper's ready. I'll finish mine here," he said.

"I'll see you later, then," Sam said to Frodo, patting his hand and taking the mug. He retrieved the tea tray and left for supper.

Frodo watched Frodo-lad gulp down his food and chuckled. "Don't give yourself indigestion on my behalf. I'm perfectly content here until you're ready."

Frodo-lad shrugged. "Can you sit on the stool while I pour the water, or should I pour it and come back for you?"

"You'll have to come back for me, I'm afraid."

"No, no, it's fine. If it were a problem, I wouldn't have asked," he chided. He finished eating and stood. "I'll be right back, then."

After supper was over and the cleanup was being taken care of by the children (and Rosie was having some well-deserved time off of her feet in the sitting room), Sam went to check on his Frodos. The bedroom was empty, so he went to the bathing room. Frodo was leaning against the edge of the tub, his eyes closed, while Frodo-lad was kneeling beside the tub, washing his leg and foot. "Do you mind an audience?" Sam asked.

Frodo's eyes opened a crack. "No, that's fine. Just . . . no comments, please."

Sam settled himself on the stool near the tub. "As if I would say anything cruel," he said lightly.

Frodo quirked a smile but Sam thought it looked like his eyes were glittering with tears. "You haven't seen me lately," he replied carelessly.

"All right, I'm done with you, Mr. Frodo. Are you ready to get out, or do you want to soak a bit more?"

"I'm ready," Frodo said, clutching the sides of the tub to sit up in preparation to stand.

"Da, would you grab the big towel, there? I'll need it in a second."

Sam held the towel in preparation while his son helped Mr. Frodo stand in the tub; Frodo held his arms out while the towel was wrapped around him, then Frodo-lad lifted him out of the tub and set him on the cushion in front of the fireplace. Another towel was draped over Frodo's head and shoulders, and Frodo-lad used a smaller one to dry each arm in turn before pulling forward a basket of pads and wraps and several jars of ointments.

Frodo and the lad then seemed to settle into a routine of treating and covering wounds Sam hadn't even realized were there; his elbows, his heels, his knees . . . after Frodo-lad checked the backs of Frodo's shoulders -and was apparently satisfied, for the ointment didn't make an appearance there- he patted dry the rest of Frodo's torso and pulled a fresh flannel nightshirt over his head. At length, Frodo-lad spoke. "Do you want to kneel for the next part, or lay over the cushion?"

"I can't guarantee I could kneel long enough, so I'll lay."

Frodo-lad helped Frodo rise on his knees long enough for him to dry his middle and move the towel out of the way so Frodo could inch around and lie over the pillow he'd been sitting on, resting his head on his folded arms. Once he'd laid a dry towel over Frodo's legs to keep him warmer, he pulled the basket closer and pushed the nightshirt up to expose Frodo's bedsores, which dotted his buttocks and hips. "You're back up to nine, Mr. Frodo," Frodo-lad said conversationally. "Looks like you reopened a couple with all that coughing."

"I'm not surprised," Frodo's muffled voice said.

Sam moved from the stool to sit near Frodo's head and winced when he saw the sores, then was grateful that Frodo couldn't see his expression. He set his hand on Frodo's shoulder and said nothing.

Frodo-lad seemed unfazed as he liberally spread the ointment on each sore, then pulled out a large piece of flannel and set it over the sores and tapped Frodo's back. Frodo pushed himself up a bit and Frodo-lad helped him sit back on his heels, and wrapped the flannel around in front and tied it closed. The nightshirt was pulled down over it and Frodo-lad ran a hand through Frodo's hair. "I think you're dry enough there, Mr. Frodo. Ready to go back to bed and have a bit of supper?"

Frodo smiled sleepily at Sam. "I'm ready for bed, anyway."

Sam smiled back. "We'll see about that. Do you want me to take him, lad?"

"If you like. I'll go ahead and clean up here."

Sam picked Frodo up without too much trouble, considering he hadn't done so for quite a while. "So you're not wearing underlinens these days?" he asked as he started down the hall.

"Rosie's not letting me use the chamber pot by myself right now, and it's easier for them to help if I'm not wearing them," Frodo said, blushing.

"When did that change? You weren't needing help before I left," Sam said, concerned.

"While you were away. I started coughing while getting out of bed and fell. That's why my knees are scraped up."

They arrived at the bedroom and Sam stopped by the bed, realizing that he had no idea how to arrange all of these pillows and flannels. Frodo chuckled. "I can tell you what to do, but I promise it's not difficult. Set me down on the big square against the pillows. All right, now we make sure the flannel is straight and my nightshirt isn't wrinkled underneath me, I fix the pillows a bit, and we're set. Well, once you retrieve the covers for me," Frodo said, pointing at the heap at the foot of the bed. Sam could definitely manage that, and tucked him in well. Frodo heaved a relieved sigh and grinned. "I wouldn't have dared sigh like that this afternoon." Then, of course, he started coughing and Sam stepped in to help him sit up while he coughed. "Why does life abuse me so," he moaned.

"You just need more of that tea," Sam said stoutly.

"Then it's a good thing I brought some," Rosie said, bringing in Frodo's supper tray. She set it on the table next to the bed and rubbed Frodo's exposed back. "How are you doing, dear? Aside from the coughing, of course."

Frodo shrugged as he returned to his pillows. "The same, I suppose."

Rosie felt his cheeks, forehead, and neck and clucked her tongue. "Still warmer than I'd like. Supper isn't much, so don't go on looking at me like that. If Sam here will help you with supper, I have a few things yet to do tonight."

"I'll help him," Sam promised. "But you ought to take it easy, like. Let one of our brood do whatever needs doing," he said, kissing her forehead.

"I never said as what I had to do was chores," Rosie said with a laugh and ruffled Sam's hair before she left them to attend to Frodo's supper.

* * *

Sam was sprawled in one of the easy chairs in their bedroom when Rosie returned from her bath. She sat on his knee and watched his face while she finished drying her hair. "How'd he do with supper?" she asked, knowing without asking that his thoughts were still wiith Frodo.

"It hardly seemed like he ate anything, but Frodo-lad said he did better today than he had the past couple of days." He fell silent. "That tea does seem to help with the coughing, though. How about I finish out the week as Mayor, to give Fatty a couple of days to see what's going on, then I'm home until he gets better?"

Rosie met his gaze steadily for a few moments, then nodded. "That'll do. I can't say as I wouldn't mind having you home sooner, but we can manage."

"Should we send the young'uns to stay with my sister or your brother for a spell? Would that help?"

"I don't think we need to do that just yet -I don't want to impose on them without having an idea of how long it will be for."

"How long could it take? Now that he ain't coughing so bad, won't he get better?"

Rosie laughed and shook her head at him. "There sure is a lot you don't know about sickness, Samwise Gamgee." She dropped her eyes and looked serious. "Honest, I ain't sure when -or if- he'll get better. The cough would still be there if we wasn't dosing him, an' . . . well, you've seen him. He ain't strong."

"No, that he ain't," Sam agreed. 'Frail' was the word that came to mind, actually, as much as it pained Sam to use that word for his strong, brave Mr. Frodo. "But you can't really think he won't get better!"

"We'll have to wait and see," Rosie allowed.

* * *

Fatty accompanied Sam home the next day, to give his regards to Rosie and pay a visit to Frodo. Frodo was happy to see him, though he apologized for not being good company, as he was rather tired. Fatty assured him it was no trouble and stayed only briefly, holding his hand and doing all the talking for both of them.

Frodo was asleep and Fatty was just watching him when Rosie came in with an armful of linens. "Could you take those pillows off the trunk, there?" she asked.

"Certainly." He moved the pillows and lifted the trunk lid for her. "How is he doing?" he asked, glancing at Frodo to make sure he was still asleep.

Rosie also glanced at the sleeper and shook her head. "Not here," she murmured. When she finished arranging the linens, she beckoned for him to follow her to the front room. Fatty leaned against the doorway, hands in his pockets, while Rosie began pacing. "It's hard to say," she said finally. "You saw him."

"Yes. Have Merry and Pippin been told that he's ailing?"

Rosie stopped. "Nay. At least, I haven't told them. I doubt Sam has thought to."

"I'll write, let them know. Should I tell them we'll let them know if it gets serious?"

Rosie nodded and scrubbed her face with her hands. "If they'd like to write to him, I'm sure he'd love to hear from them. And tell them I don't know how long it might be. He's . . . unpredictable."

Fatty chuckled. "He always has been."

"Thank you for doing the Mayoring for Sam. Was there anything else? I need to see how the girls are getting on with dinner."

"No, that was all. I'll have the messages to Merry and Pippin in the Post tomorrow." He turned to leave, then stopped. "Do let me know if there's anything I can do."

"Of course. Thank you." Rosie squeezed his hands and he showed himself out.


	8. Compromises

Rating: PG for this part

Wordcount: 2,311 for this part

Chapter Summary: Frodo is getting restless, but Rosie has an idea.

* * *

Frodo-lad thought Frodo seemed a bit stronger now that the cough was controlled, so he put him to the test and had him stand a while before and after the bath. Frodo didn't seem to mind, and he did pretty well considering he'd been confined to bed for a number of days (which is to say, he was rather light-headed at first, but managed not to faint or even stumble). He was still rather tired and definitely feverish, and had to do some coughing occasionally, but in Frodo-lad's opinion, he should be allowed to do certain things under his own power. Like use the chamberpot.

Rosie, however, was not convinced. She did not want to risk him falling again, or overexerting himself. Sam agreed with Frodo-lad (as did Frodo, but since he was the subject of the argument, his opinion was not given much weight), and they agreed on a compromise that Frodo could get up to use the chamberpot as long as someone was in the room with him.

Frodo was not entirely pleased, but it was enough. He could get up, allay some of the soreness and stiffness by moving around just a bit (but not so much that he got tired), and Frodo-lad let him sit in the chair for a bit when he wanted to, which helped with a pain that seemed to be developing in his lower back.

When Frodo's condition didn't significantly change -for better or worse- the household settled into a routine of who did what and when. The daytime was the most variable, with just about any member of the household likely to sit a spell with Uncle Frodo while chores were done and meals were prepared and served. Sam probably sat with him the most during the day, since he would only be in the way if he tried to help with something like the washing or planning meals. Frodo-lad handled the evening bath, supper, and settling Mr. Frodo for the night, and minded him until about mid-night, when he would rouse Goldi. She watched him the rest of the night and into the morning and usually sat in the doorway with a lamp lit in the hallway so she could do some mending or other sewing without disturbing him with the light. She sometimes wondered what was the use of watching him sleep, but he did occasionally need to use the pot in the night, which Rosie deemed sufficient reason for there to be someone with him at every hour, day or night.

One evening after his bath, Frodo couldn't seem to get comfortable and asked Frodo-lad to help him lie on his side instead. "My sores are particularly sore this evening," he said by way of explanation.

Frodo-lad could believe it; none of the sores seemed to be healing, so he was going to ask his Ma to take a look at them on the morrow. It seemed their attempts to shift Frodo's weight during the day weren't helping enough. "All right, how much can you do yourself?" he asked, pulling the covers back so Frodo wouldn't get tangled in them.

"I don't know," Frodo said, pushing up onto his elbows. He started to turn his shoulders, but stopped abruptly with a gasp and returned to his former position.

"What's wrong?"

"That hurt my back. Let me try a different way." This time he tried to shift his hips first, but with the same result. "If I just roll onto my side, could you move the pillows afterward?" he asked finally.

"Aye, or I could pull you back onto the pillows, whatever suits you best."

Frodo nodded, and managed to roll himself onto his right side. Frodo-lad tugged the flannel until Frodo was again centered on the pillows. "Does this feel better?"

"Yes, I think so. Maybe one less pillow, though. And I'm not sure where my bottom arm should be."

Between the two of them, they figured out how to arrange Frodo's limbs so he was comfortable, which mostly involved moving his arm out from under his body and putting the extra pillow between his knees. "Thank you, that's much better," Frodo said. He slept that way for the night and slept fairly well, but moving onto his back again was a trial, and his back ached something fierce for several hours afterward.

Frodo-lad spoke to his Ma during the morning, and they agreed she would come to help him dress Mr. Frodo's wounds that evening. She told Frodo about Frodo-lad's request that she come, and obtained Frodo's assent to that proposal. Rosie knew how Mr. Frodo could be about others seeing him naked, particularly in his current state.

The day passed quickly for Rosie, and soon she was knocking on the bathing room door. Frodo's voice bade her to come in; he was towel-clad and sitting on the stool while Frodo-lad was drying his legs and feet. "Good evening, Mr. Frodo," she greeted as she patted his shoulder. "Shall we take a look?"

Frodo, who ordinarily did not pay much attention while Frodo-lad did the daubing and bandaging, watched and listened attentively as his caregivers discussed his wounds. Apparently his knees and heels were healing well, if rather slowly, and shouldn't need bandages by the end of the week. His elbows weren't doing as well, but the sores were small and not deep.

It took a few moments to don the nightshirt and walk carefully over to the cushion; Frodo-lad tried to suggest that he go on his hands and knees instead, but Frodo tetchily replied that his hands and wrists rather hurt today, or didn't Frodo-lad remember that he'd had to do almost all of the washing during the bath? Rosie tried not to laugh at Frodo-lad's expression -apparently he hadn't yet experienced the sharper edge of Frodo's tongue. She ruffled his hair and settled next to Frodo on the floor, watching as Frodo-lad pushed aside the nightshirt so they could work.

"You've got quite a collection there, Mr. Frodo," Rosie said, rubbing his back. Frodo stiffened but didn't respond. "This might hurt a bit," she warned, then touched a few of the larger sores, feeling the depth, the edges, the surface. "They could certainly be worse, and I'd like to keep them from getting that way."

"How could they be worse?" Frodo-lad asked.

"Deeper, mostly, and these aren't full of pus. Mr. Frodo, you still have control of your bowels, yes?"

"Yes!" he said indignantly.

"Good, that means we can try bandaging them."

While Frodo-lad applied the salve, Rosie investigated Frodo's newest complaint, the backache. She told him to tell her when it hurt, then began walking her fingers up his spine, gently pushing as she set each finger down. Frodo's responses went something like "Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow, no, everything else feels fine." Rosie returned to the sore spots and felt around more carefully, massaging the muscles on either side.

"Really, it's probably just sore because I've been cooped up in bed," Frodo said impatiently.

"Perhaps you're right, but since you didn't used to hurt there, I needed to check on it." Rosie patted his shoulder and helped Frodo-lad finish up. It took her a little while to figure out how to secure any sort of bandaging over all of the sores, but finally managed to wrap some strips of cloth over the pads in a manner that seemed secure.

"It feels like a diaper," Frodo griped as Frodo-lad carried him back to the bedroom.

Rosie laughed. "It's not a diaper. If we ever have to put you in one, believe me, you'll know the difference."

"I just said it feels like one. I know it isn't one," Frodo grumbled.

"My, aren't we cranky this evening! Is there a reason for the grumpiness that I can help, or are you just being difficult?" Rosie asked as they tucked him in to bed. She shooed Frodo-lad out, sat on the edge of the bed and held Frodo's hand.

Frodo sighed. "I'm useless and a bother. I'm sick of needing all of the help, but . . . I have to admit I need most of it." He coughed a bit, and closed his eyes.

"I'm sorry, my dear. Well, how about you help me keep the young ones occupied? Would you feel up to telling the next bit of your story tomorrow?"

Frodo smiled faintly. "That would be nice, but . . . I don't remember where I left off."

Rosie chuckled. "Nor do I. I'll ask Tom before he goes to sleep and let you know."

"All right," Frodo agreed. "Could you have Frodo bring the Red Book in so I can refresh my memory? And . . . could I sit in the chair tomorrow? While I tell the story?"

"Sit in the chair . . . ?"

Frodo blushed. "Frodo lets me sit in the chair, sometimes. It feels better on my back. I . . . probably shouldn't have mentioned it."

"If he weren't taking such good care o' you otherwise, I'd have to kill that boy," Rosie said fondly. "If it makes you feel better, yes, you may sit in the chair. But only if you eat a good amount for supper -don't think I haven't noticed that you're playing with your food more than you're eating it."

"I know, I'm just never very hungry."

"Yes, but while you may not feel hungry, you still need to eat enough to keep body and soul together. We can talk tomorrow about what kinds of things I can give you that you'll want to eat even if you're not that hungry. All right?"

Frodo nodded reluctantly. "All right. But for supper, what do you consider to be 'a good amount'?"

"Oh, I don't know. I'll know it when I see it." Rosie winked as she stood. "Eat more than you have been, and I'll be satisfied."

Rosie left the room to find Frodo-lad hovering outside the door with Frodo's supper tray. "I didn't want to interrupt," he said.

"Good lad." She told him of the bargain and tomorrow's story arrangements before allowing him into the bedroom. Tom was thrilled to hear there would be more of the story told, and tried to tell her the whole story so far, but she managed to get him to tell her just where Frodo left off. She poked her head in the kitchen and gave Rose-lass some instructions, went to the study to retrieve the Red Book, and returned to Frodo's bedroom to drop off the book and tell him where he'd left off. She was pleased with what Frodo had eaten so far and told him so, but encouraged him to try a bit more.

After chasing the young ones off to bed and Sam took over to tuck them in and make sure the elder ones were behaving, Rosie checked in on Frodo again, complimented his efforts on supper, took the tray back to the kitchen, assembled Frodo's evening tonics and started the tea steeping, checked the pantry for market day tomorrow, decided what would be for breakfast, checked the tea, and dropped off the tray in Frodo's room. Frodo-lad was reading the part of the story that Frodo would have to tell tomorrow and taking notes on any changes -omissions, mostly, for the young ones weren't old enough for some of the specifics- so he could prompt Frodo if he lost his place. Rosie listened for a while, then left them to it and settled in the sitting room to work on a bit of embroidery. Fatty's son and daughter-in-law were due to have a baby soon, and she was bound and determined to finish at least a bib afore the wee bairn arrived.

Sam found her after all the children save Frodo-lad were in bed or at least in their bedrooms. "I stopped by his room, but he was already asleep. Frodo-lad tells me he was cranky this evening," he said as he sat next to her on the settee.

"Aye, feeling just ill enough to know he needs help and just well enough to resent needing it. I told him he could tell a story to the children tomorrow."

"Tom will be pleased."

"He was that pleased when I told him. I had to ask him where Mr. Frodo had left off -Mr. Frodo couldn't remember."

"Come to it, I don't remember either. It's been that long. What will he be telling tomorrow?"

"Weathertop and the journey to Rivendell."

Sam took a deep breath. "Do you really think that's a good idea?"

"He's mentioned it afore, and Frodo-lad was helping him decide what to tell and what to leave out. I think it will be fine."

"So he's doing well enough to tell stories, then."

Rosie laid her head on his shoulder. "I don't know if 'well enough' is what to call it. He's still ill, certainly, his sores aren't healing well, and now he's got a pain in his back. I've a mind to ask the healer to come by again, see if he has any explanation for how he's feeling."

"Last time he said it was lung sickness, aye?"

"Aye. But if so, it's the slowest case of lung sickness I've ever seen. And it couldn't hurt to ask for something to give him for his back."

"All right, we'll ask the healer to come by tomorrow."

"If you help him eat at all tomorrow, we'll be measuring his food, so Rose, Goldi, or I will have to see the dishes afore they're scraped."

"I didn't realize you did that. Why?"

"To see how much he's actually eatin', plain and simple. We've only done it a couple of times before, but I think we'll have to start doing it more often. His appetite just ain't good."

Sam laid his cheek on her head and sighed. "Come, it's time for bed. The morrow will be here soon enough."


	9. Despair

Rating: PG-13

Wordcount: 5,172 for this part

Chapter Summary: Frodo wallows in self-pity; Rosie tries to set him straight.

* * *

Rosie left for market with Rose-lass, Merry, and Pippin after breakfast. Sam sat with Frodo, who had been given his morning medicines and was now nibbling at his own breakfast, which consisted of small portions of what the family had eaten a short while earlier. "They always give me too much," Frodo said petulantly.

Sam eyed the dishes, then eyed Frodo. "If you can't eat more of the eggs or sausage, you could try the juice or the porridge," he suggested after a moment of silence. Frodo grimaced. "I hear you're telling more of the story today," he said to draw Frodo's attention away from the vexing problem of food.

Frodo nodded. "Yes." Any further response was interrupted when Tom burst in the room.

"Uncle Frodo, when do we get the story?" he asked eagerly, starting to climb up on the bed.

Sam gestured for him to get down. "Let him eat, lad."

Frodo chuckled. "Your Ma says we'll have the story this afternoon, after chores are done. Are your chores done yet?"

Tom looked at his father, then Frodo, and shook his head, looking down at his feet. "No."

"Go do your chores then, or you'll not get to hear the story," Frodo encouraged.

Tom nodded enthusiastically and scurried out of the room.

"We ought to have you tell a story every day, if it'll get them to do their chores quickly," Sam commented with a grin.

Frodo ate a bit more egg and smiled slightly. "I don't think I'd mind doing it." He sighed and put down his fork, picking up the glass of apple juice instead. "Do you still dream of it? What happened?" he nodded toward the Red Book on the bookshelf under the window.

"Aye, every now and again."

"I do sometimes. It often feels more real, somehow, than any of this." He gestured at himself and the room around him. He coughed and took a sip of juice.

"Are the dreams ever nightmares?" Sam asked curiously.

Frodo chuckled humorlessly. "I lived a nightmare those many years. The memories pale in comparison." He focused his attention on his juice, swallowing several large gulps as if to say he didn't want to talk about it anymore.

Sam regarded him seriously. "I've meant to ask for a long time . . . why did you end the Book like you did? Sailing away with the Elves . . . it certainly ain't true."

"No, it isn't true. More like a flight of fancy on my part. But come now, how would you have had me end it? 'Then Frodo lost his mind and the others wasted much of their lives trying to care for him'? Or, even better, 'Frodo tried to off himself and went mad'? What a satisfying ending!"

Sam stared at the bedclothes, deep in thought. He knew Frodo was being sarcastic, but he did have a point, and yet . . . "But the story hasn't ended. We're all still here."

Frodo laughed hollowly. "I wouldn't be, if it weren't for you."

Sam couldn't interpret Frodo's tone of voice to tell how that was meant, so he said nothing.

"I ended the story how I wished things might have happened," Frodo finally said wearily. "I never felt I belonged in the Shire after we came back. You, Merry, and Pippin got right back to life, but I couldn't. If I could have just left, you three would have lived your lives, perhaps sad that I left, but at least the memories of me wouldn't have been bad. But now . . . now I will be forever remembered as the mad hobbit raving in the back room." He gritted his teeth and looked for a moment like he was going to throw the empty glass, but he controlled himself and set it on the tray.

"No, you won't. We know that wasn't really you," Sam argued, rubbing the back of Frodo's hand.

Frodo jerked his hand away. "Your children don't. Frodo-lad only believes that the story is true because he saw my scars, but I'm not going to have the entire Shire trooping through here for show-and-tell just so they believe the Mayor that poor, dear Mr. Frodo really did what he claims. Not that they care to find out for sure, anyway." He pushed at the breakfast tray agitatedly. "Even worse, I have ruined your life. You should be happy with your family and being Mayor, not taking time away from those duties to tend an old, broken hobbit."

"I'm the one who decides whether my life has been ruined," Sam contradicted firmly. "I say it hasn't. Helping you is just as much a part of my life as being Mayor, if not more. I've known you far longer than I've been Mayor, after all."

"Yes, and you've done quite enough for me. Go spend your time where it might actually do some good," Frodo said heatedly.

Sam stared at him, uncomprehending.

"Your Gaffer was right to call you a ninnyhammer, Samwise Gamgee. Let me make my meaning plain: Get out. Leave me. I want to be alone!" With each successive phrase Frodo's voice rose in volume until he was nearly shrieking. When Sam still didn't move, he flung the tray on the floor with a loud clatter. "Out!" he commanded.

Sam leapt to his feet at the sound of the tray crashing to the floor. "Will you let me clean that up first?" he asked evenly.

"No!" Frodo took a deep breath to try to calm himself, feeling a cough coming on but unwilling to give Sam a reason to stay a moment longer. "Please leave," he asked again, and turned his back to Sam.

He did leave then, aghast at Frodo's abrupt change of mood. He closed the door softly, and sank down to sit against it, listening in vain for any sound from Frodo. Frodo-lad came to see what the noise was about and offered to sit with Mr. Frodo, but Sam wouldn't allow it. "He said he wanted to be alone, so we're going to leave him alone for now. When your ma gets home, tell her to come find me. I'll be right here."

When the door closed, Frodo shakily pushed himself up from the pillows and leaned over the edge of the bed to see the damage he caused. The porridge was slowly oozing onto the floor, and it looked like he'd shattered the juice glass. He sighed, holding back a cough, and climbed down to clean up his mess. He managed to right the tray and put the intact dishes back on it before he started weeping and coughing wretchedly.

Rosie hurried to Frodo's room when Frodo-lad relayed Sam's message, and found Sam hunched against the bedroom door, his eyes red. She knelt beside him and held his face gently. "What happened?" Sam told her of the conversation and Frodo's sudden violence. "Do you think he was out of his head again?" She asked after several moments' thought.

"Nay, he knew exactly what he were saying," Sam said bitterly.

Rosie kissed his forehead. "I'll try to talk to him. Remind me later to tell you what happened with the healer."

Sam nodded morosely and slowly got up from the floor. "I'm gettin' too old to sit on the floor so," he muttered.

"You could have gone to fetch a chair, you silly goose."

Sam mumbled something to the effect of 'didn't want to leave 'im,' and retreated down the hallway. Rosie knocked on the door gently, then opened it a crack. "Mr. Frodo, I'm coming in." There was no protest that she could hear, so she slipped into the room and closed the door firmly behind her.

She was momentarily startled to find the bed was empty. "Are you hiding, Mr. Frodo?" she asked as she peeked under the bed. No Frodo there, but she saw him on the other side of the bed. She cautiously approached that side of the bed. "Ah, there you are." He was sitting cross-legged against the bed, his hands in his lap and his head bowed.

"I made a mess. I'm sorry," he said in a small voice, not lifting his eyes from his lap.

"As you should be. I expect better behavior from Tom," Rosie scolded lightly, hands on her hips.

"Are you angry with me?" he asked in the same timid voice.

"Angry? No, not angry. Frustrated and upset, yes. I understand that you're feeling restless from being cooped up in bed so long, but you're not giving us time to try to help you before you go and do something like this! And you were very sharp with Sam."

"It was the truth," Frodo said defensively, still not looking at her.

"It may have been the truth, but if it can't be said nicely, perhaps it oughtn't be said at all."

Frodo did not reply for several moments, then he said softly, "He spends too much time on me. All of you do."

Rosie knelt next to him, put her hands on his cheeks, and made him look at her. "Who are you to say whether we have spent too much time on something? What makes you think that you can tell Sam how to spend his time?"

"I'm worried that he's not spending enough time with you or his children," Frodo protested, the argument sounding hollow even to his own ears.

Rosie snorted. "Ha! No you wasn't. And don't assume you know the state of things between me and Sam or Sam and the children. If I have a problem with how my husband is spending his time, I will take it up with him. I don't need you to speak on my behalf -I'm perfectly capable of doing my own speaking. Now go ahead, try again: what gives you the right to say any of these things?"

"He has wasted his life on me. My story should have ended long ago," Frodo said defeatedly, looking anywhere but at Rosie despite her grip on his face.

"To call his care for you "wasted," well now, that's quite arrogant of you. Do you think his care in getting you to that mountain was wasted?" she asked pointedly.

Frodo closed his eyes. "No," he whispered.

"But then something changed when you got back to the Shire?"

"I was changed . . . I don't fit in the Shire anymore."

"So, what, we were supposed to just let you die because you feel you don't belong? Is that it? Have you truly forgotten how most of Hobbiton thought of you? What about Mr. Bilbo being called 'Mad Baggins'? Is that belonging?"

Frodo shrugged, struggling to put his thoughts into words that might make her understand. "I am of no use to anyone . . ."

Rosie scrutinized his eyes. "Sam was certain you weren't out of your head earlier, but I'm not so sure. What you're saying is a kind of madness, no doubting it." Frodo pulled away from her hands, and she let him go. "Mr. Frodo, we care for you because we care about you. I can see you don't understand that, but why don't you try accepting it? As to the question of endings, none of us get to choose our story's ending, so why should you be different?"

Frodo ignored the question. "If you had let me end my . . . story, I wouldn't be so miserable now," he muttered.

"Frodo Baggins!" Rosie cried, aghast, and when he turned his head slightly to look at her, she slapped him. "Don't you dare blame us for your misery," she scolded. "Yes, you are ill, but much of what you are suffering from right now is all in your head. If you weren't so obsessed with how you think your story should have ended, perhaps you'd appreciate more of the story you have been given."

Frodo started to touch his reddening cheek with his hand, then stopped and put his hand back in his lap. His eyes swam with tears, but even he couldn't say whether they were from the slap or the force of her words.

"You will apologize to Sam for what you said -and mean it!- and you're not going to get to tell the children more of the story until you do. The earliest you can tell the next bit will be tomorrow; I've decided you're not well enough today to do something so taxing."

"But-"

"No, I'm not changing my mind. Tomorrow, and only if you apologize to Sam to his satisfaction before then."

Frodo's shoulders slumped. "That was the only thing I had to look forward to today," he said woefully.

"You can't think you can throw your breakfast on the floor and still get to tell a story. And now you have something to look forward to for tomorrow." Rosie sighed and decided she was done scolding for now. "Let me see your hand. Don't think I didn't notice that you're bleeding."

Frodo surrendered both his hands, which were specked with bits of glass. "I didn't know where all the pieces were until I was trying to pick things up and felt pain," he said, sniffling. "You should look at my leg, too."

"Your leg?" She tugged the nightshirt up and saw a large bit of curved glass embedded in Frodo's shin. "Let me guess: you didn't see the piece there and put your leg on it."

Frodo nodded.

"That one might need stitching. Why didn't you take the bits out? I'm sure you could've managed some of them, though it's probably for the best that you didn't move the one in your leg."

Frodo shrugged. "I figured I deserved it for making the mess in the first place."

Rosie sat back on her heels and stared at him, then shook her head. "I won't even try to understand. Will you stand so I can make sure you're not sitting on any more pieces?"

"I can't," Frodo said glumly. "I think I strained my back when I jerked back after feeling the glass in my leg."

"All right, I'll help you up." Rosie stood over him and pulled him up by the armpits, and with her help Frodo staggered to the chair, letting her check for any other injuries before he sat down. "Stay there, and I'll be right back," she promised.

Sam was lurking in the hallway when Rosie emerged, and she beckoned for him to come with her. "He's in a rare mood, and no mistake," she said quietly as she gathered the things she needed. "I almost hope the healer does come by today, just to see what would happen."

"The healer might not come?" Sam asked in surprise.

"Aye, that's what I wanted to tell you. He wouldn't say one way or t'other whether he'd be by; I feel like he's avoiding Mr. Frodo. And he suggested liniment for Mr. Frodo's back." She made a face. "If I thought liniment would help, I woulda tried it already, but now we'll have to try just to tell him we did."

"And Mr. Frodo hates the smell of liniment," Sam said with a grimace. "How about we not tell him until he's more himself?"

"Oh, aye."

"Bandages?" Sam asked, noticing what Rosie was picking out.

"The juice glass broke, and he didn't see the pieces-"

"-until he was on top of them. Of course. Is there anything I can do?"

"Tell the children Frodo isn't well enough to tell them a story today. I don't know when he will be telling it -he has to apologize to you and mean it before I'll allow any story-telling. And I'm going to have either you or me sit with him until he's acting like hisself again. I don't think Frodo-lad or Goldi or even Rose-lass could handle him in this state."

Sam nodded his agreement, and Rosie disappeared back into Frodo's bedroom. She set the bandage basket, towels, and a large pitcher of water down by Frodo's feet, then began by wiping up the porridge and bits of food from the floor. Once the floor was clean, she set the cloths on the tray and put the tray outside the bedroom door.

Rosie settled on the floor at Frodo's feet. "Let's start with your leg, shall we?"

Frodo shrugged, his eyes closed and his hands lying palms-up in his lap. "Whatever you think is best," he said dully.

Rosie set the washbasin in her lap, then set herself where the injured leg was directly over the basin. "This may hurt a bit," she warned as she gently tugged the piece of glass out and dropped it into the basin. Blood began running from the wound, and Rosie poured some water over it. Then she held a towel over it and waited for the bleeding to slow so she could see if the wound needed stitching.

It took a while for the blood flow to stop enough for her to get a clear view, and once it had she needed to blot it with the towel several times to clean bits of dried blood from the surrounding skin. Rosie prodded at the cut, causing Frodo to wince, before declaring, "I think I'll give it two or three knots, just to be safe. This will hurt."

Frodo nodded and tried to steel himself. Rosie was very quick about her business, and while that didn't make it hurt any less at the time, at least the pain wasn't prolonged. Some salve, then a bandage went on over that, and his leg was done.

Rosie had to do a bit of maneuvering to get up from the floor after sitting there so long; Frodo could sympathize, and for the first time he realized how old Rosie and Sam were getting to be themselves. Their biggest concern should be the weddings of their children and the arrival of grandchildren, not tending an old, bitter hobbit that was little better than a leech. But he knew that expressing such a view would draw out Rosie's wrath again, so he remained silent.

"If you'll hold the basin in your lap, that would be easiest," Rosie suggested, and helped him turn a bit in the chair so she could perch on the edge of the bed while tending his hands. She had to use the stitching needle to dislodge some of the glass shards from his hands, and when that was done, both palms were littered with small, bleeding cuts. "Hold them out, now, and I'll pour the water over."

The water stung a bit, but the salve was soothing, and Rosie took care to wrap his palms so that the wounds were covered, but with as little fabric as possible so he could still (awkwardly) grasp things. "You'll need help with most everything for a day or two, but it could be worse," Rosie said.

Frodo had to appreciate the irony of his outburst causing him to be even more reliant on those he didn't wish to burden. He found himself chuckling, which quickly turned to coughing that he couldn't seem to control. Rosie tried to help support him, but he waved off her hands -there was nothing she, or anyone, could do to help him.

At length he was left with just a pounding head and a chest that felt like a giant hand was squeezing it, and he found himself alone. He stiffly sat back in the chair, experimentally clenching his fists before he rubbed his face with his hands, wishing to erase the entire morning. Nothing had gone well, though he reflected ruefully that could be said of his life in general of late. But he could, at least, take advantage of being alone to use the chamber pot in private for once.

Frodo was considering whether he ought to attempt getting back in bed or just stay put when Rosie returned. He groaned when he saw the tray she carried. "I won't be hearing any of that from you," she said lightly. "You're going to eat a bit, then I'll let you have your medicines, and then you're going to rest and think about things. Now, would you like to sit there to eat, or would you rather be in bed?"

Frodo chose bed, as he wouldn't be able to get up there and get settled without feeling nauseated if he tried after he ate. Rosie was reasonably kind to him and only made him eat a piece of toast and finish off his piece of fish after he considered himself finished, though Frodo could sense that she was still rather upset with him and would start scolding again if he so much as slid a toe over the line.

Rosie was pleasantly surprised when Frodo took his medicine without complaint. She'd been prepared to fight him on it, as always, but rather than the martyred sighs, wrinkled noses, and overexaggerated grimaces, there was passive acceptance of whatever tonic, tincture, or tea she handed him. The exception was one instance of gagging, when Frodo tried to gulp the willowbark tea too quickly, but that was unintentional and therefore acceptable.

When Frodo visibly relaxed as the medicines began to work, Rosie asked, "Who would you rather sit with you right now, me or Sam?"

Frodo yawned languidly, then replied, "Neither."

"Neither isn't one of the options. It will be Sam or me until you apologize to Sam and I'm sure you won't try to pull any more stunts and manipulate the children so you get what you want."

Frodo frowned. "Calling it manipulation is rather harsh, I think."

"I don't," Rosie said shortly. "You're very good at getting your way; always have been. Like the nonsense with Frodo-lad letting you sit in the chair -it was your idea and you convinced him to agree with you, I just know it."

"And nothing I say will change your mind, so you're free to believe what you like," Frodo said with a defeated-sounding sigh.

"So will it be me or Sam?" Rosie persisted.

Frodo had to think about it. Facing Sam would be a touch embarrassing, but Rosie was more likely to scold and he really wasn't in the mood for more scolding.

Rosie, too, was thinking, particularly about the fact that her husband was very easily manipulated by Frodo Baggins. "I've changed my mind," she announced before Frodo could voice his choice. "I'll be staying here for the time being. Sam needs some time away from you, I wager."

Ah, well, she'd realized that Sam could not say no to his Mr. Frodo, with the exception of letting said Mr. Frodo die. Frodo had no idea what she thought he might try to convince Sam to do, but she certainly knew Sam well enough to predict there could be trouble. He had to give her that. Fortunately, he was sleepy enough that who was sitting by his bed didn't particularly matter -he wouldn't be awake to care. And Rosie wouldn't scold while he slept.

Frodo fell asleep so quickly that Rosie suspected the bit of sleep herbs she'd slipped in with his other tonics had been unnecessary, but she hoped a good bit of sleep would remedy his inexplicable mood, so she wasn't sorry she'd done it. He slept deeply, too, so she left him alone for a while to see to a few things.

Sam took the time to sit with Frodo-lad in the study to go over the account-books; he'd decided to have Frodo-lad assume the bulk of the responsibilities belonging to the Master of Bag End when he came of age later in the year. Sam would retain the title for the time being, but having Frodo-lad seeing to the estate would make his Mayoring vastly easier. Frodo was right that Sam couldn't do everything by himself, so Sam deemed it time to let his son step in. Who would take care of the garden in his place was a more troublesome matter, as neither Merry nor Pippin showed the natural talent for it that Frodo-lad had. They both could muddle through well enough, and Sam had already tasked them with preparing for Spring, but he suspected that would not be a permanent solution.

Rosie checked on Frodo periodically, but he slept soundly all afternoon, and was rather difficult to rouse when it came time for dinner. She sat with him while he slowly ate, occasionally needing to lend a hand so he wouldn't drop his mug, but mostly she just watched him. His mind seemed to be someplace else, and every so often Rosie had to gently direct his attention back to his food lest he fall asleep in his plate.

After a while, he asked quietly, "Would it be a terrible bother for me not to have a bath tonight?"

"No, it wouldn't be a bother at all. Why?"

"I'm afraid I'm not feeling up to having a bath tonight. I didn't realize how much energy it takes to be upset," he said musingly.

"Are you sure? You're feeling warmer than usual, and having a bath might be better for the fever."

"The fever isn't bothering me nearly so much as being so dreadfully tired is," Frodo replied, opening his eyes with difficulty after they'd drifted shut of their own accord.

"All right, I suppose we can skip the bath tonight," Rosie agreed reluctantly.

Frodo nodded once, then seemed to be asleep almost immediately. Part of Rosie wondered if she'd overdone the sleep herbs, but then her mind countered that those would have lost their effect hours ago, so this must simply be exhaustion from the morning's events. Perhaps his overexertion that morning had worsened his illness, as well, but only time would tell that.

He was a bit more awake and present when Rosie roused him for a small bit of supper, though he remained quiet for almost the entire time he spent eating. Rosie was content to let him be quiet, and had brought her bit of embroidery to work on. After a while that drew Frodo's attention and he asked what it was and who it was for. Rosie briefly explained, reminding him that Fatty had mentioned his coming grandbabe when he'd visited for Frodo's birthday.

Frodo frowned and confessed he didn't remember that particular bit of information. He seemed upset that he couldn't remember hearing about Fatty's first grandchild. Rosie tried to soothe him with the reasoning that his birthday had been rather overwhelming for him, so of course he wouldn't remember all of the details, but Frodo was still distressed. "How can I appreciate the story I have if I can't even remember the details?" he asked despairingly.

Rosie couldn't answer that, of course, and she was taken aback that Frodo was obviously still dwelling on her earlier words. Silence fell again until Frodo asked, "Will you allow Frodo-lad to read to me for a little while?"

"No, you only get me or Sam until you apologize to Sam for this morning," Rosie replied immediately. "I'm sure Sam would be happy to read to you."

Frodo smiled slightly. "How can I apologize when you're the only person I've seen since then?"

Rosie grinned back. "You have a point," she conceded. "Shall I fetch him, then?"

"Yes, if he wouldn't mind reading to me, I'd appreciate it. And if you don't mind, I'm quite done with trying to eat."

Rosie eyed the tray calculatingly, then shrugged and removed it from his lap. "I'll come back with your medicines."

Frodo nodded and closed his eyes to wait for Sam. He nearly dozed off before he heard footsteps and felt a hand on his forehead; it was Rosie. "Drink up, dear," she said, handing him a mug. "The sleep brew is on the table for when you're done with this." A second mug was sitting on his bedside table with a small towel over it to keep it a bit warmer. She patted his shoulder and left.

Sam settled into the chair beside the bed while Rosie talked to Frodo, and he watched Frodo closely, but Frodo seemed to avoid looking at him, devoting all his attention to drinking from the first mug. "Rosie tells me you wanted someone to read to you," Sam said.

Frodo glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. "Yes. I wanted to hear the last chapter of the Red Book . . ."

"No."

"Please, Sam. I need to hear it."

"You want me to read the bit that we was arguing over this morning. You must take me for a fool to go asking something like that."

Frodo sighed and gagged as he gulped the dregs of the tea. He finally turned to look at Sam. "Please. I'm . . . trying to sort through some things in my head, and I need to hear it."

Sam frowned, but Frodo met his gaze steadily. Still outwardly frowning, Sam's mind wavered until it reluctantly settled on reading the darn chapter. "All right, I'll do it, but you have to promise you won't get upset again."

"I promise," Frodo said immediately. He carefully exchanged his empty mug for the full one while Sam retrieved the book from the top of the bookcase and flipped through the pages until finding the right section. Sam cleared his throat and began to read, hesitantly at first, then growing more confident as he reached the part about his early time with Rosie. That, at least, was true.

Frodo listened silently, his eyes closed, and occasionally took a sip of his cooling tea. He didn't want to fall asleep before the chapter ended, after all. When Sam finished, they both sat in silent contemplation. Frodo was the first to stir, and put the second mug with the first. "Thank you, Sam," he said, wearily settling back onto his pillows. "When- when did Bilbo die? I don't remembering hearing about it."

"Well now, that was . . . hmm . . . we got the letter from Lord Elrond a few months before Merry was born, so 'twas at the beginning of 1427. We told you, but you . . . weren't in a state to remember."

"No, of course I wasn't," Frodo said resignedly, then smiled slightly. "So he really did pass the Old Took."

"Aye, that he did."

"I'm sure he was pleased . . . if he was awake enough to realize it."

"I'd think he was. It's the sort of thing he'd know, no matter what," Sam said confidently.

"You're probably right," Frodo said, then yawned. "Good night, Sam."

"G'night, Mr. Frodo," Sam replied, putting the book back where he'd found it and leaving him to sleep undisturbed. Frodo-lad poked his head in a while later and thought he saw traces of tears on Mr. Frodo's cheeks. He shrugged, blew out most of the lamps, and sat quietly with him until his father returned.


	10. Reconciliation

Rating: PG-13

Wordcount: 6,349 for this part

Chapter Summary: Frodo apologizes to Sam and tells more of their story.

* * *

Sam sat with Frodo for much of the night, dozing in the chair beside the bed. He wasn't entirely sure why they were still sitting with him almost constantly, as he didn't seem to need the attention, but he knew when to let Rosie have her way. He'd agreed to wake Rosie in the wee hours of the morning so he could rest, but he fell asleep and it was nearly dawn when he left Frodo peacefully sleeping to fetch Rosie.

She scolded him for letting her sleep so long while he helped her dress, but she kissed him before leaving. Sam was in the middle of debating whether to put on his nightshirt or just go to bed in his clothes when Rosie reappeared. "Why didn't you tell me he was a-sweatin'?" she asked sharply.

"Sweatin'?" Sam repeated, bewildered. "He weren't sweatin' when I left."

Rosie's frown deepened. "Strange. Come and help me get him settled?"

Sam followed her back out of their bedroom. Rosie went to fetch Goldilocks to help while Sam continued on to Frodo's room. Frodo was awake by then and looked confused. "Sam?" he asked hesitantly. "Why am I wet?"

He was, indeed, wet. Sam was surprised at the extent of the 'sweating,' with Frodo's nightshirt obviously wet, and his top pillow looked damp, and so did the edge of the sheet that was pulled over Frodo's chest. "I don't rightly know," Sam replied honestly.

Further conversation was halted with Rosie's arrival. "I have Merry, Pippin, and Hamfast fetching and heating water for a bath. Goldi and I will change the bed linens if you can pick him up and, oh, set him in the chair, I suppose."

"I'm capable of getting out of bed myself," Frodo objected, pushing back his covers so he could prove his point.

"Aye, but damp clothes chafe bad, and there will be less chafing if Sam picks you up instead," Rosie said gently. "Unless you'd like to add to your collection of sore spots?"

"No," Frodo grumbled, but allowed Sam to lift him and set him in the chair. "I suppose it's good I didn't have a bath last night," he observed wryly as Goldi and Rosie efficiently stripped the bed and remade it with linens from the chest at the foot of the bed.

Sam chuckled. "Aye, so 'tis." Rosie gave him a light quilt, which he handed Frodo, who gladly spread it out over himself to stop his shivering.

When the flurry of activity ended in a freshly-made bed and a fresh nightshirt set out, Rosie sent Goldi back to bed, then crouched in front of Frodo. "Now, how are you feeling?"

"The same as I did yesterday, though my skin feels . . . clammy, right now. And I'm a bit thirsty."

"We can fix that." Rosie motioned for Sam to give Frodo a glass of water. "Well, then, were you feeling too warm? Did you have a nightmare?"

"I don't think I felt too warm . . . my bed has had the same number of quilts for days, and I've been fine until now. And no, I didn't have a nightmare . . . I dreamt of Gandalf," Frodo said slowly. "I can't think of any reason why . . . this happened."

"We may never know," Rosie soothed, patting the sweat off his face with a handkerchief. "But we'll have to keep a close eye on things for the next few days, just in case."

Frodo nodded wearily, letting his head rest against the wing of the chair. He nearly dozed off before the bath was ready, so it was good that riding in Sam's arms didn't require any effort. Getting into the tub required that he stand long enough for Sam and Rosie to help him undress and divest himself of the various bandages, but soon enough he was basking in warmth. "How are you feeling now?" Rosie asked once he was settled.

"I'm all right," Frodo said lazily. "A little wetter, but it's a good kind of wet."

Rosie chuckled and left him in Sam's care to start tending to first breakfast. When Frodo didn't speak for a while after Rosie left, Sam decided to break the silence. "You dreamt of Gandalf?"

"Hmm? Oh, yes . . . it was rather odd; it almost seemed he was right there in my room." Frodo gave a little laugh. "He wasn't, of course. He wouldn't actually be able to sit in that chair."

"Did he say anything?"

"He had quite a lot to say. Scolded me a bit, and gave some advice . . . much like any other conversation with him, really. Then he left and I woke up just before you came in." Frodo thought it best not to say that Gandalf had called him a bitter, selfish hobbit that didn't in the least resemble the Frodo he'd known and didn't deserve the care and love being lavished on him.

"What was he scolding you about?" Sam couldn't help asking.

Frodo fidgeted, making waves that raced toward the end of the tub, bounced back, and splashed up against his chest. "Your Rosie is a smart lass."

Sam wasn't sure what to make of the non sequitur, but decided to follow along. "Aye, too smart for the likes of me, I reckon."

"She . . . said some things to me, yesterday. She was right, and I guess dream Gandalf thought he needed to pop in and make sure I knew she was right." Frodo shifted uneasily. "You both are too good to me, and I've been horribly ungrateful." Sam drew a breath as if to speak, but Frodo raised a dripping hand and said, "No, no, hear me out. I was very unkind to you yesterday, and I'm sorry. It was wrong of me to even think such things, considering all you have done for me. I hope you can forgive me."

It was Sam's turn to shift uneasily. "Aye, I forgive you, though Rosie would say I'm too soft." An awkward silence followed, so Sam asked if Frodo was done in the tub, which he was, and Sam set to helping him out. Frodo started coughing as soon as he stood, and Sam was hard put to keep a hold on the jerking body so as not to let him fall. Rosie came in to help, and between the two of them, they managed to get Frodo out of the tub and onto the stool while he continued coughing.

When the coughing stopped and Frodo was catching his breath, Rosie moved to start tending his sores, but Frodo stopped her. "If you don't mind, I need to use the privy first," he said, nodding his head toward the indoor privy seat in the corner.

Rosie apologized for not asking if he needed to use it, and had Sam help him up from the stool. Frodo insisted on walking the few steps to the seat, holding on to Sam's arm for support since he didn't have the cane. Rosie left again to make sure the children were up; Frodo's knees buckled just before he reached the wooden seat, but Sam managed to keep him from falling and set him onto the seat.

Frodo rearranged the towel that was wrapped around himself, and did his business, marveling once again how nice it was not to have to kneel or squat over the chamberpot. He was almost tempted to ask if one of these could be put in his room to save his knees, but such an accommodation felt like admitting his age was getting the best of him. Which it was, but Sam didn't need to know that (he suspected Rosie already knew, somehow -she was quite insightful about such things).

Rosie returned before he was quite finished. "Tom asked about you, Mr. Frodo. He's hoping you're well enough to tell them a story soon."

Frodo smiled tiredly. "I hope so, too. Do you think tomorrow would be all right? I think I'll need to sleep more today."

Rosie glanced at Sam, who nodded to confirm that Frodo had apologized. "We'll see how you feel tomorrow morning, mind, but if you rest today that should be fine."

Frodo beamed. Rosie wetted a cloth in the bathtub water and wrung it out. "If you're finished, we ought to carry on. Can you clean yourself up?" She gestured with the damp cloth.

"Yes, I'm finished, but . . . I think I could use some help. Just about everything aches already," he said, grimacing.

Rosie passed the cloth to Sam, then had Frodo lean forward against her while Sam wiped his bottom. "We can give you a rubdown, see if that helps. And maybe some liniment would be a good idea, despite the smell."

"If it helped, the smell wouldn't matter," Frodo said, muffled against her stomach. "But it usually doesn't help." He sighed. "I'll try it, if you think it best."

"I think it's worth a try," Rosie said diplomatically, stepping aside to let Sam pick Frodo up to carry him back to the stool. Rosie set to tending Frodo's sore spots, and directed Sam in wrapping Frodo's hands. Frodo tried desperately not to fall asleep, but Rosie seemed determined to make that difficult, as she started massaging his feet and lower legs once she was done bandaging everything she could get to.

Then Sam was picking him up and set him on his knees next to the cushion, helping him lie down on it. Frodo settled down, mostly comfortable but for the ache that seemed to be in his very bones. Rosie efficiently tended the bedsores while Sam gingerly rubbed his back, afraid of damaging the fragile skin or otherwise causing Frodo harm. Then Rosie took over the back rubbing, and Frodo relaxed into sleep.

Rosie snickered when Frodo started snoring. "Guess he won't be complaining about the liniment smell," she commented. "Will you fetch it for me? Goldi should know where 'tis if you can't find it."

.

Frodo woke briefly when Sam was putting him into bed. He sighed and closed his eyes. "Here now, Mr. Frodo, stay with us for a bit," Rosie coaxed, settling the covers over him and patting his cheek. "How are you feeling? Are the aches any better?"

Frodo sighed again, this time in annoyance. "They're . . . better, yes, except for my back. May I sleep now?"

"Not if you want breakfast-" Frodo wrinkled his nose. "-or your morning teas." Frodo didn't look convinced.

"You're certainly free to feel awful later, which is what will happen if you skip your teas," Rosie commented.

Frodo eyed her sleepily. "I think I'll take my chances, but thank you for your concern," he replied dismissively.

"Have it your way, then. But don't think I won't say I told you so," Rosie said with a smirk.

"Mmm. Well, if you're right, I'll let you say it, since it'll be true." Frodo replied with a tired smile. He was asleep soon after.

"He'll regret this," Rosie told Sam. "But it will be useful to see how he's doing without being all dosed up."

Sam was shaking his head ruefully "And here he was telling me that you were right in whatever it was you said to him yesterday. He sure ain't showing it now."

"Did he really?" Rosie asked in surprise as she came around to the side of the bed Sam was on.

"Aye. The Gandalf in his dream agreed with you," he told her, slipping an arm around her waist.

"Well now, I ain't had a wizard agree with me before, in a dream or no," Rossie said, somewhat pleased. They moved toward the door. "I'll have Rose sit with him while we eat, then I'll come back. I want to see how he does. Will you be all right planning the rest of the meals for the morning?"

"I think I can manage it," Sam assured her with a wink.

* * *

Frodo was ripped from his comfortable slumber by a sudden inability to breathe. He panicked, flailing and struggling against what felt like an iron band around his chest. There was a grunt near his head, then something grabbed his wrists and held them down. He tried to pull them free, but his strength was no match for the one holding him.

The iron band gradually seemed to loosen, and at length he was able to discern the words being spoken to him, encouraging him to calm down, breathe slowly, and stop struggling. He listened to the voice, realizing with relief that he could, indeed, breathe. It was more difficult than he was used to, but it was certainly still possible.

When he came to himself, Frodo was shivering, leaning against Rosie, with his wrists being held by Frodo-lad, who was perched over Frodo's knees. "What happened?" he asked hoarsely, his throat feeling raw.

Frodo-lad let go of his wrists and climbed off the bed at a gesture from his mother, and Rosie replied, "You were coughing in your sleep. I sat you up, but you started struggling and Frodo-lad had to help me."

"I felt like I couldn't breathe. I . . . I panicked."

"I can believe it. Will you be all right if I lie you back down?"

Frodo nodded. "Did I hurt you?" he asked meekly as she helped him lie back down.

Rosie chuckled. "Nay, I just wasn't expecting it." She offered a cup of water, and he sipped from it carefully.

When he'd taken as much water as he could stomach for the moment, Frodo closed his eyes and took stock. Just as Rosie had promised, he felt awful. He cracked open an eyelid to see Rosie watching him, and he said, "All right, you can say it. You were right."

"I don't like being right in this case, but I *did* tell you so," Rosie said mildly. "Tell me how you're feeling."

"E-everything aches, including my head, and my back . . . feels like it's on fire. Probably from coughing." He had to take a few breaths before continuing. "Hard to breathe, feels like . . . something is sitting on my chest. My throat feels raw, and there's a . . . tickle, like I could start coughing again." A few more breaths. "And I'm so cold . . . so tired." Rosie nodded and fetched another quilt from the trunk and laid it over him. "Thank you."

"Would you like your teas now?"

Frodo's brow creased. "What time is it? Would having it now . . . be a problem? With when you normally . . . give it to me, I mean?"

"Bless your heart. It's nearly luncheon, so it's almost time for the next round anyhow. I'll go have the girls get things started," she said, rising from the chair. "You just sit tight, now."

"But I was going to go for a nice, long walk," Frodo protested wryly, his eyes already closed again.

Rosie laughed and left the room. She returned with a tray, which she settled over his lap. "Guess what I have for you," she said in a sing-song voice as she tucked a hand behind his back and helped him sit up.

"Oh, my favorite," Frodo said sarcastically. He stared down at the dishes for a few moments, not seeing what was in them, then said quietly, "I'm sorry for how I have been acting lately . . . you were right to scold me so."

"Aye, but you'd not be in the right to let your food get cold to tell me so," she said with a grin.

Frodo blinked and peered at her, then back at his food, finally noticing what was before him. "Is that . . . steak and mushroom pie?" he asked, not willing to believe his eyes.

"'Tis," she confirmed.

"You are too, too good to me," Frodo said fervently. He took several careful bites, then frowned. "Did you do something different with the mushrooms?"

"No, we made it just the same as we have before. Why?"

"It tastes different. The mushrooms almost seem . . . slimy," Frodo said unhappily, then hurried to add, "It's still quite good, of course. Maybe it's just me."

"That could be it," Rosie agreed. "Things sometimes taste different when you're ill."

"But why does it have to be mushrooms?" Frodo asked, pouting but continuing to eat.

"It does seem a mite unfair," Rosie soothed. This was going to make it that much more difficult to find things to coax Frodo to eat -she'd been counting upon his love of mushrooms to entice him with a variety of dishes, but if the consistency of cooked mushrooms troubled him, that would rule out some of the obvious choices.

"More than a mite," Frodo mumbled, giving up on the crust of the pie and poking at the cooked apples instead. "At least these still taste right."

"Good." Rosie was just as relieved as he was.

A knock at the door, and Rosie opened it for Rose-lass, who carried in two steaming mugs and placed them on Frodo's tray. "Good afternoon, Mr. Frodo," she said with a smile.

He returned the greeting and the smile, and slowly continued eating. Rosie stepped out into the hall with Rose-lass briefly, then Rosie reappeared and asked, "Are you feeling up to answering a few questions?"

Frodo considered for a moment, leaning against the pillow against his back that was helping him sit up. He was feeling a bit more awake now that he'd eaten, but . . . "Questions about what?" he asked warily.

"About what you'd like to eat."

"Oh, I suppose that's all right," Frodo conceded.

Rose-lass returned, with some paper and a pen and ink. "Rose is going to take some notes for me," Rosie explained. Frodo nodded and started sipping at one of his mugs -willowbark, from the taste. That would help.

The conversation lasted longer than Rosie expected, but it was very helpful, and Frodo seemed happier afterward, too. He expressed concern that he would be causing them more work, but Rosie assured him that the types of things he was asking for -thick noodles with chicken, stew and dumplings, and bread pudding, to name a few- would be fine for everyone to eat, so it wouldn't be any trouble. This seemed to satisfy him, and shortly after she helped him lie down so he could nap. Frodo was quite ready for a nap, especially now that he didn't feel like he was going to cough at any second and his head no longer felt like it was being crushed by an oliphaunt. Rose-lass stayed with him while Rosie took his tray away, and while Frodo appreciated seeing someone other than Rosie or Sam, he found that he simply didn't care at the moment.

.

Rosie was pleased by Frodo's high spirits the next morning; it seemed he was looking forward to telling a story as much as Tom and the others were looking forward to hearing it. She watched him carefully throughout breakfast, but he did seem to be doing better, particularly since the overnight sweating hadn't recurred, so she thought it safe to allow the storytelling early in the afternoon. Even his appetite seemed better, though Rosie suspected he was eating more simply because she was watching.

Frodo was on his best behavior all morning, and he could tell Rosie knew it, but that didn't bother him. He'd been difficult long enough. Despite the anticipation, he took a long morning nap, and tried to eat a good luncheon, but couldn't manage nearly as much as he had for breakfast. Rosie assured him it was all right, for he didn't want to eat so much as to fall asleep. Before Rosie left with the tray, she supervised Frodo getting out of bed so he could stand and walk a bit before he settled into the chair.

A few minutes later Frodo-lad backed his way into the room, carrying a stool and the notes he'd made previously. He set the stool next to the chair, but paid no mind to Frodo until he spoke. "It looks like a nice day."

Frodo-lad looked up to see Frodo standing in front of the small window, peering out at the sun-drenched, frozen garden. "Oh, 'tis, but it's much colder than it looks."

Frodo chuckled. "It usually is, in the wintertime. Have we had much snow since Yule?"

"Only a touch, but there's still time -it's only the first of February."

"February already? I've been ill longer than I thought," Frodo murmured thoughtfully to himself, turning away from the window and adjusting his grip on the cane for the trudge to the chair. It was a small room, but distances have a way of extending themselves when a body is old and sore. He stopped to straighten his nightshirt and dressing gown before slowly setting himself in the chair. When he was sitting comfortably, he unfastened the first several toggles of his nightshirt and, after pulling it slightly open, pulled the fabric closed again.

"What are you doing?" Frodo-lad asked curiously.

"If they ask about my scar, I want to be ready to show it to them."

Frodo-lad nodded his understanding. "Do you need to go over the notes again?" he asked as he shifted his stool and sat, too.

"No, I remember quite well, thank you."

"Then why did you have me read you the chapter and everything?"

"I needed a reminder of what everyone else was up to," Frodo said patiently, peering at him around the wing of the chair. "The parts that concern me directly, well, let's just say it would be hard to forget, hmm?"

Frodo-lad was spared having to answer by his mother bustling in. "Are you ready, Mr. Frodo? Here, put this quilt over you so you don't get chilled."

"Thank you, Rosie. Yes, I'm ready," Frodo replied serenely.

Rosie touched his cheeks and forehead briefly. "Aye, I suppose you are. Now remember, if you need some water, just ask." She opened the door to admit the eager audience.

Naturally, Tom was first through the door. "May I sit on your lap, Uncle Frodo?" he asked shyly.

"I don't think that would be a good idea today," Frodo said gently. "But you can sit right here in front of me, or up on the bed, if you like."

Tom immediately plopped himself right at Frodo's feet and grinned up at him. "This is good."

The rest of Tom's siblings chose their own spots, the younger ones sitting with Tom on the floor, while the elder ones sat on the bed or the trunk. Sam leaned against the doorway until Rosie tapped him on the shoulder and gave him a chair, and brought one in for herself, as well.

"Since it's been a while, can any of you tell me what has happened so far?" Frodo asked, looking around at each of the young faces.

"From the beginning?" Primrose asked doubtfully.

Frodo smiled. "Yes, from the beginning. That is, if any of you can remember so long ago," he teased. "Well, except for Tom here, who I know can tell the whole thing, perhaps better than I can."

Tom squirmed in his seat, blushing. Merry kicked at his head from the bed, muttering, "Obnoxious little runt."

Frodo saw Sam start up in his seat, but gestured with his hand. "The point of this story, your father's story, is that even the smallest, most... frustrating person can make a difference. Pippin -your uncle Pippin, I mean- could be quite annoying, I assure you." He chuckled and added, "I think your father agrees with me." Every head in the room swiveled to look at Sam, who was caught mid-nod and coughed uncomfortably.

"The point is," Frodo resumed, "that Pippin came with me on this journey when he was your age, Merry, and he did some very great things by the time we came home. Tom is the youngest -through no fault of his own, I would add- but none of us know what he or any of you might do in life. Every person has their part to play, so treat everyone well. Understand?" Merry nodded sullenly. "Besides, what would you do if Tom were Mayor one day? He could make you regret all of your teasing then!" Frodo added with a wink.

Tom giggled behind his hand.

"So, Merry, can you tell us the beginning of the story?" Frodo asked, settling back in his chair.

"Bilbo had a big party," Merry said, sighing heavily.

"He certainly did," Frodo confirmed. "Hamfast, what happened next?" In this fashion, Frodo had each of the children -and Rosie and Sam, too- recount what had been told before. Tom was last, and tried to include far too many details, but eventually finished with the four hobbits, Strider, and the pony trudging through the Midgewater Marshes.

"Very good," Frodo said encouragingly, and started the tale from the night he and Strider saw a flashing light to the east. Sam watched him with interest, finding that he almost enjoyed the retelling of that dark night and the fear and misery that followed. Rosie took his hand when the black figures rose from the shadows and held it tightly until Frodo stopped talking.

No one spoke or even moved for several moments. Frodo took a deep breath and mopped his face with a handkerchief; storytelling was hard work. He surveyed his wide-eyed audience with satisfaction.

"You-you can't stop there," Ruby protested, twirling her hair nervously.

"Of course I can," Frodo said.

"We have to know what happens," Daisy chimed in from the other side of the chair, hugging her knees to her chest and rocking back and forth anxiously.

"What happened to the Black Riders? Did you hurt yourself when you fell off the horse?" Robin asked.

"I don't think I hurt myself when I fell off the horse. At least, not more than I was hurt already," Frodo replied, realizing he'd never thought to ask that particular question.

Tom tugged on Frodo's lap blanket. "Were you all right?"

Frodo grinned. "Tom, I'm right here. Do you think I was all right?"

Tom caught on quickly. "Yes," he said with a giggle.

"Well, I was mostly all right," Frodo amended sheepishly upon seeing Sam's raised eyebrow. "But I'll save that for the next part of the story. I still have a scar."

"Could we see it?" Bilbo wanted to know.

"Certainly." Frodo pushed back the shoulder of his nightshirt and exposed the thick white line. Several of the children stood up and came closer to look at it.

"Can I touch it?" asked Pippin.

"May I," Rosie corrected.

Pippin rolled his eyes. "May I?"

"Only if you don't press on it. It still feels sore sometimes." Pippin, Bilbo, and Daisy carefully touched his scar, their touches tickling his skin.

"But it's been a long time," Primrose pointed out.

"Yes, but sometimes hurts just . . . linger, and this wound was special. You'll find out why in the next bit of the story," Frodo promised.

"When will you tell us the next part?" Tom asked eagerly.

Frodo looked to Rosie, who shrugged. "We'll have to see how I feel after this -telling tales is hard work," he answered, winking at Tom. "I think I'll be ready for more the day after tomorrow. Does that suit you?"

"No, I want it now!" Tom said with an impish grin.

Frodo laughed and ruffled his hair. "I know you do. But your mother will scold me if I stay out of bed too much longer, and you know how unpleasant it is to be scolded."

Tom nodded solemnly, and out of the corner of his eye Frodo saw Ruby and Bilbo nodding, too.

"You can come and say hullo later, if you like," Frodo assured them. Rosie followed his cue and rose, shooing everyone out of Frodo's room so he could rest. Frodo-lad would have stayed, but Sam had him take the stool and the chairs out so that when the chaos settled it was only the three adults in the room.

As soon as the door closed behind Frodo-lad, Frodo let his head drop against the side of the chair. "Oh, my," he said with a sigh. "That was fun, but I'm knackered."

"That's no surprise," Rosie said, setting to work straightening the bed. "You ain't been out of bed this long since Yule."

"You sure you're just tired? You're awful pale," Sam asked in concern, crouching in front of Frodo's chair.

Frodo sighed and grimaced. "My back aches terribly," he admitted.

"The bed is ready for you," Rosie said. "Do you want to try a hot water bottle against your back? And I can put on some willowbark tea for you, if you like."

Frodo hesitated a moment, then nodded. "I'll take both, if you don't mind."

"Not at all," Rosie assured him. She caught Sam's eye and gestured toward the bed, then left the room, closing the door behind her.

"Will you need help to get back in bed?" Sam asked, patting Frodo's knee.

"I don't know. Maybe." Frodo slowly worked on standing up, eventually -and with a great popping and creaking of joints- raising himself onto his own two feet, though he couldn't seem to stand up straight. Perhaps future storytelling sessions should be shorter . . . just in the interest of being able to move afterward.

Sam stood with him, ready to help if necessary. "Hold still a moment," Frodo instructed, grabbing on to his elbow and using Sam's arm to pull himself a tiny bit straighter. It helped some, but not much. Frodo sighed and shuffled to the bed, carefully sitting and inching his way toward his nest in the middle. Sam offered to pick him up and set him in place, but Frodo refused. He was still getting himself into place when Rosie returned with the hot water bottle and tea.

"All right, dear, why don't you stop a moment and drink this," she suggested, holding out the cup.

Frodo conceded and paused long enough to gulp it (and burned his tongue in the process), but he really just wanted to find a comfortable position, which seemed like it might be too much to ask. At length, at Rosie's suggestion, he laid on his side with the hot water bottle held against his back with a pillow, a position that at least wasn't excruciating.

Sam sat with him for a while and they talked a bit, though Frodo let Sam do most of the actual talking. When Rosie came to check on Frodo and found Sam chattering away, she shooed him from the room so Frodo could rest. Frodo did manage to sleep despite his discomfort, but only in short bits.

It wasn't until his evening bath that his back began to feel better. Even better was the rubdown Rosie gave him after his bath; he was asleep even before she was finished. She reluctantly had Frodo-lad wake him for supper and his medicine -he needed his rest, but he needed the medicines more, and food as well. Predictably, Frodo was not pleased to be awake and did not eat much, but Rosie didn't push him this time.

Frodo slept for most of the next day, waking only for meals and the healer's brief visit between afternoon tea and dinner. Rosie had managed to convince him to come, though she suspected he only did so because he now considered Frodo a curiosity, what with still being alive and all.

Healer Mugwort arrived between afternoon tea and dinner. Rosie stayed with Frodo -as they had agreed earlier in the day- while he was poked and prodded, and Rosie in turn prodded Toby for answers. After listening to Frodo's breathing and coughing, feeling his back, and asking a few questions about Frodo's fever, Toby admitted, "I still think it sounds like the lung sickness, but how it's possible that he's had it this long without any real changes, I have no idea."

"What about his back?"

"Stiffness from lying abed, no doubt," Toby said dismissively. "If the liniment didn't help, I can provide a different salve."

"Please do," Rosie replied.

"I don't have it with me, but if you send one of your lads down after dinner, I'll have some ready."

Rosie agreed to this. "Is there anything else we can do for the rest? The coughing and such like?"

Toby shrugged. "Not if what you're doing is helping well enough. There are very few options if those stop working, especially at this time of year. But do let me know if you need something else, and I'll see what I can put together." He fastened his bag and added, "If that's all . . . "

"That's all," Rosie confirmed.

"Have a good evening, Mistress Gamgee, Mr. Baggins," Toby said, nodding to both of them and showing himself out. Rosie heard him greet Sam in the hall, then the footsteps receded.

"He was civil enough," Frodo said with some amusement. "But he sure doesn't seem to know much. Or else I scare him enough that he loses his wits."

Rosie sighed and rolled her eyes. "He don't have many wits to lose, that's for certain," she said, adding a bit of wood to the fire. "But tending to you does seem to unsettle him somehow."

"How long has he been the healer in these parts? He seems awfully young."

"Don't he? He's been the healer for, oh, nigh on a half-dozen years, at least. It's been since Tom was born, but aside from that, I can't say for sure."

"I see." Frodo lapsed into silence for a few minutes while Rosie bustled about fussing with various things, though he couldn't tell why she was fussing in the first place. "So will it be all right to have another story time tomorrow?"

"I don't see why not," Rosie said, finishing whatever it was she was doing in the trunk at the end of the bed. "I'll send Sam in with your dinner in a bit. Will you be all right until then?"

Frodo nodded and closed his eyes to think for a while.

.

Even after his bath and supper, Frodo found himself feeling rather awake, probably as a result of sleeping most of the day away. Frodo-lad was poring over a large book while Frodo ate, so Frodo asked about it when he'd finished eating. "It's the accounts-book," Frodo-lad told him with a bit of a grimace. "Da wants me to take over managing most things when I come of age this year."

"Really? Might I take a look?"

Frodo-lad eyed him doubtfully. "I thought you had trouble reading."

"My handwriting, yes. Your father's handwriting, perhaps not. He always wrote very carefully, and I doubt that has changed much."

"All right," Frodo-lad relented and settled the book on Frodo's lap.

Frodo had to move the book forward and back until he could make out the letters, but even then he had to squint some to bring it in focus. Finally he found a good position, holding the book out almost at arm's length. He perused the columns, flipping back to the beginning and skimming the numbers recorded. His eyebrows rose as he calculated the difference between what he was reading and what he could remember being the state of affairs when he'd turned the estate over to Sam's care. "Your father has done quite well for himself," Frodo said finally. "Has he taken you on a trek through the lands yet?"

"I've gone with him a few times, but I won't have to do that part by myself yet. He says he might as well come along, what with needing to visit the folks as Mayor yet." Frodo-lad took the book back when Frodo offered it, and they fell to discussing the lands under the control of the Master of Bag End. Frodo felt a vague sense of satisfaction at how much he still remembered of the duties he'd carried out so long ago -it felt like a different life, almost- and Frodo-lad seemed surprised at how much he knew.

The conversation lagged after a while, and Frodo asked curiously, "Has there ever been talk of changing the name of Bag End?"

Frodo-lad slowly nodded. "Aye, but Da wouldn't hear of it. Says it's always been Bag End, and so it always shall be. But folk still talk, sometimes, especially while you were . . . shut away."

"Of course they did," Frodo said reasonably. "And I'm certain it will come up again when I die, for then there won't even be any Bagginses living in Bag End, much less as Master."

Frodo-lad said nothing.

"Would you change the name?" Frodo asked.

"Oh, I don't know. I can't imagine what else to call it," Frodo-lad said lamely.

Frodo chuckled. "Names are such a bother," he said musingly. "But don't let it worry you. If you ever decide to rename it, I'm sure you'll find a suitable name."

"Elanor probably wouldn't let me change it, anyhow," Frodo-lad said with a shrug.

"Ah, but she won't be Master," Frodo reminded him. "She may be older, but you have the final say. Or you will, anyway. Ask for advice, by all means, but go with your heart and your gut."

Frodo-lad nodded, wide-eyed. He thought he knew Mr. Frodo pretty well by now, but this was a side he'd never seen before. His Da's stories about the young Master of Bag End made a lot more sense now. Come to think of it, Mr. Frodo had to completely take over as Master when he came of age . . . Frodo-lad had to admit he was downright impressed. "H-how did you manage, running everything after Mr. Bilbo left?"

Frodo smiled. "With a lot of help from older, wiser folks." He yawned. "My, it must be getting late. Your mother will hurt us both if she finds out we've been talking so long. But, lad, while I doubt I can tell you anything that your father doesn't know, but if you have any questions, you're welcome to ask."

"I will," Frodo-lad said, suddenly feeling shy. "Do you need some water or anything before you go to sleep?"

"No, thank you, I think I'm all right." Frodo smiled a bit and added softly, "Good night."

"Good night, Mr. Frodo."


	11. Resignation

Wordcount: 5,520 for this part

Chapter Summary: Rosie finds out what Frodo has been hiding, and Frodo writes to his cousins.

A/N: The medical-type stuff in this fic has not been run by those who know more about such things than I do, so no guarantees that it is realistic despite the research I did.

Warning: We have progressed to the point in which Frodo's death is openly discussed. Also, there are bodily functions and other such things present (but you could probably guess that based on previous chapters).

* * *

"I still want to tell more of the story today," Frodo whispered to Sam as he lifted him from the damp bed into the chair.

Sam snorted. "You and Rosie will have to talk on that. I ain't going to interfere."

"Talk on what?" Rosie asked from the other side of the bed as she started stripping the bedding.

"Him doing storytime today," Sam said, filling a cup of water and giving it to Frodo.

Rosie gave Frodo a forbidding look, her lips pressed together. "I don't know about that, Mr. Frodo," she said warily. "We don't know as what's causing these sweating fits."

"I didn't do anything but sleep, eat, and talk yesterday, so I doubt it's due to anything I've done," Frodo argued.

"True enough, but I don't like it." She dropped the bundled bedding by the door and came to sit on the arm of the chair, placing a hand against his forehead. "How about we get you sorted for now, then we'll all get a bit more sleep and talk about this when it's actually light outside?"

Frodo smiled wanly and nodded. "All right."

Rosie should have known better, but she found herself surprised at the fervor with which Frodo argued when they finally had their discussion after elevenses. He never yelled -doing so would probably send him into a coughing fit- but he made it abundantly clear that he thought he should be able to go ahead with the planned story session that afternoon. Rosie, needless to say, disagreed, but was finally won over with his plea, "Please, let me do this while I'm still well enough. I need to tell the story before I die."

Rosie held him gently and shushed him. "The story's all in that book you wrote, dear. I won't say it's not more thrilling to hear it, but don't fret about how far you get. Sam and I will make sure they know the whole thing afore we go."

Sam, who had been observing under the pretense of acting as mediator if they couldn't agree, frowned at this talk of death but remained silent.

That afternoon, Frodo was in fine form as he told of the Council of Elrond, and Rosie conceded that she'd been wrong to think he wasn't up to the telling. So they established a pattern of storytelling one day and rest the next, which kept the children happy despite a sudden turn of cold weather outside and ensured Frodo was telling his story but not exhausting himself. The storytelling had another advantage of keeping Frodo's spirits high, which made him more likely to want to eat.

Every few days he would have a sweating fit in the wee hours of the morning, but aside from feeling thirsty afterward, they didn't seem to be doing him any real harm. As a fortnight passed, Rosie did find that Frodo was needing the cough remedy slightly more often than before, and he seemed to have a bit more difficulty in his breathing, but Frodo didn't appear to notice, so she kept him well-supplied with his medicines and life continued on without incident.

Until, that is, Goldi fetched her and Sam in the pre-dawn hours for another sweating fit and Frodo was no longer in the bed when she and Goldi came to the room. "Mr. Frodo?" Rosie asked, pausing in the doorway with Goldi behind her.

A hand waved above the far edge of the bed. "I'm here. I'm afraid I've made a bit of a mess."

Rosie gestured for Goldi to wait in the doorway while she went to see what was the matter. Frodo was kneeling awkwardly over the chamberpot, but when he tried to speak, Rosie held up her hand and said, "Goldi, tell your father to get a basin and some cloths for the bathing room, then bring one of the large towels here. You need to bring me a bucket of hot water and some rags, then go and set out the small washtub in the kitchen and put some water in it -we'll need to soak some things."

Goldi nodded and left, and only then did Rosie venture close enough to Frodo to rub his shoulders. "How are you feeling?"

Frodo sighed heavily. "Terribly embarrassed. It would appear I couldn't move quickly enough to prevent . . . soiling myself," he said, his voice tinged with bitterness.

"It can happen to anyone," Rosie soothed. "I'm afraid this may be my fault -I was distracted while making your tea yesterday and let it steep longer than normal. That may explain the urgency, and the consistency," she said, glancing at the back of his nightshirt.

"Well, that makes me feel a bit better," Frodo said, feeling slightly less foolish. "But it's still dreadfully awkward, and it feels quite . . . unpleasant."

"When Sam comes with the towel, we'll see about taking your nightshirt off, at least."

Sam arrived shortly thereafter, bearing the requested large towel, and helped Rosie carefully lift the soiled nightshirt off of Frodo without making a larger mess, then wrapped Frodo's lower half in the towel and lifted him away from the chamberpot. Goldi then appeared with the rags and bucket of water, and Rosie set to cleaning up the floor while Sam took Frodo to the bathing room to carefully wipe him down before putting him into the tub. Rosie stopped in to collect the rest of the soiled items and help Sam tend Frodo's sores; when Frodo was bandaged and clothed, he was returned to the freshly-made bed.

"I'm sorry for all this extra trouble," Frodo said as he helped rearrange the blankets over himself.

"Don't you worry about a thing," Rosie said, patting his hand. "We needed to do some laundry today anyway, and we were all awake already, so where's the trouble? Get some sleep, and we'll do the same. Good thing it's not a story day, though."

Frodo had to agree. He hated to admit even to himself that he was feeling weaker these days, and the early-morning fuss involved with his sweating fits was so very tiring. He waited until after Rosie and Sam had left to cough raggedly into his sleeve. Goldi poked her head in from the hallway to check on him, but he waved her away and the coughing settled back into the normal wheezing. Oh, how he longed to breathe without pain!

* * *

"Rosie, dear, we need you," Sam called down the hall.

Rosie pushed her chair back and stood. "If I'm not back by the time you're done, keep my plate on the stove," she directed Rose-lass, who nodded as she continued eating her own dinner. She paused on her way out to flick the ears of Merry and Pippin, who had been threatening to fling food at Primrose. Primrose snickered and stuck her tongue out at her brothers, and Rosie wagged a reproving finger at her. "Behave, all of you, or you'll all be out chopping firewood without a coat on."

She stopped to heave a tired sigh before pushing Frodo's door open. "What is it?" she started asking, then saw the upset tray on the bed, and the absence of Frodo in said bed.

Sam stood up on the far side of the bed. "It happened again," he said simply.

"Like this morning?" she questioned, hurrying to see. And indeed, the diarrhea had recurred. "Well, I suppose it's close enough to your usual bath time," she remarked, trying to lighten the mood. "Sam, will you-"

"Aye, I'll take care of it. All the same as this morning?"

Rosie nodded, and Sam left. She knelt next to Frodo, who had his head down and hadn't said a word. "How are you feeling now?" she asked gently.

"I would've made it if I hadn't had a tray on my lap," Frodo said, defensively.

"I understand," she assured him, rubbing his back gently. "I'm going to change what I give you in your teas, and maybe this won't happen again."

"What do you mean?"

"You've been taking a concoction my ma always recommended for those as don't move around much, to help keep things moving, like. It would seem you don't need it no more."

Frodo snorted and ventured a small smile. "It would seem things are moving just fine on their own," he agreed.

"And if that don't do it, we can try something different until we get to something that helps. I promise." He nodded, but the slump of his shoulders told her he was still discouraged. "It ain't your fault that your body is ailing and misbehaving."

"Perhaps not, but it's still humiliating," Frodo said, sounding defeated.

.

Removing the one concoction from Frodo's regimen did help . . . for almost two days. Fortunately that accident occurred in the bathing room right before his evening bath, so there was no real harm done (except to his pride). Rosie set to experimenting with different remedies for easing the diarrhea, hopefully without sending poor Mr. Frodo over into the other extreme. There were several rough days where Frodo was almost afraid to sleep, for fear he wouldn't wake in time not to mess the bed, and Rosie felt her nerves starting to fray as nothing she tried seemed to be working.

The breakthrough came one afternoon when Rosie was in Frodo's room to check on him. He was uncooperative, grumbling that no one should be so interested in his elimination habits. Midway through their terse conversation, Frodo had to use the chamberpot; Rosie watched curiously. "Why don't you pick the pot up and use it in bed when you only have to make water? Or pick it up and use it standing, so you don't have to kneel every time?"

"I don't bend that way anymore," Frodo said shortly. "Leaning too far forward hurts and makes me cough."

"But kneeling hurts you, I can tell just by watching your face."

"It's better than letting it run down my leg."

Rosie had a sudden idea. "Is it easier for you to use the privy chair in the bathing room?"

"Yes, but I refuse to move my bed there, if that's what you're thinking," Frodo said as he painfully got back into bed.

"No, no, I mean to move it in here. I think it might fit right here next to the bed, if we do a bit of rearranging," she said eagerly, studying that portion of the room.

Frodo was relieved. "I won't deny it would be a great help."

"Then that settles it. We'll get you a privy chair in here if we have to build one to fit."

.

They did end up having to build a smaller one, but Merry and Pippin had a flair for woodworking and cobbled together a privy chair narrow enough to fit between Frodo's bed and the wardrobe that was apparently bolted to the wall. It was a simple affair, resembling a chair with a hole in the seat and a shelf below to hold the chamberpot beneath the hole, but for Frodo it was his salvation from further humiliation.

Despite this bit of progress, Frodo seemed quieter than usual and Rosie wondered what else might be wrong. He still had a flair for story-telling, but he seemed . . . plum worn out, and his breathing was more labored than before. She wordlessly encouraged him to rest more by having Frodo-lad move his bath a bit earlier and waking him later in the morning, sometimes even letting him skip a meal if he were sleeping soundly.

Several days after the privy chair was put in Frodo's room, Rosie started him on one last combination of remedies -if this didn't work, she'd have to consult with the healer. It seemed to work, at least well enough that he didn't have to go so often and when he did go it wasn't nearly so messy. But even that didn't improve Frodo's mood -he was pleased, of course, but still seemed to be . . . brooding, for lack of anything else to call it.

Then came the morning that explained everything. Frodo had another sweating fit, and Goldi went to fetch a new set of sheets from the linen cabinet -they'd gone through all the sets from the trunk in Frodo's room and hadn't yet put clean ones in- while Rosie took off the damp bedding and found a handkerchief wadded up underneath Frodo's pillow. She would have just tossed it into the basket with the other soiled linens, but a spot on it caught her eye.

Shaking it out and holding it up, Rosie saw clusters of small brownish spots; this must be the handkerchief Frodo had been coughing into of late. But if that were true, then the spots, from their color alone, could only be . . . her heart clenched, and she glanced across the bed at Frodo, sitting in the chair with his head back and his eyes closed.

She quickly shoved the handkerchief in the pocket of her dressing gown when Goldi entered with the fresh sheets. "Go help your da," Rosie instructed, desperately hoping her voice sounded normal.

Goldi seemed puzzled, but obeyed, and closed the door behind her. Rosie took a deep breath and went over to Frodo, standing before his chair. "Mr. Frodo, is this what I think it is?" she asked, a quiver in her voice as she held up the handkerchief.

He didn't even look at it and met her eyes instead. "What do you think it is?" he asked evenly.

"Blood, Frodo Baggins! I think it's blood and oh mercy, why didn't you tell us?" She clenched her fists and paced alongside the bed.

"Why, is there something else that you could be doing now that you know?"

Rosie stopped and sank onto the edge of the bed. "No, there's nothing else I can do," she admitted, her eyes watering.

"I was waiting . . . so I could get used to the idea . . . before I had to face you . . . or Sam," Frodo said, his voice hitching as his control faltered. "I was finally growing content with my life, my fate, and now I'm going to die."

Rosie moved to sit on the arm of the chair and held him close while they both wept. Frodo was the first to speak. "How am I going to tell Sam?"

"We have some time to get him used to the idea . . . the consumption can be very slow."

"No, I don't think so . . . I have another anniversary in less than a fortnight, and I fear I might be overwhelmed by it," Frodo said hollowly.

"We'll deal with that when it comes," Rosie replied, wiping the tears from her cheeks. "Do you want me to tell Sam?"

"I don't know," Frodo said with a sigh. "I don't think he'll believe it no matter who tells him."

"Aye, that's true enough," Rosie agreed. "How long have you . . .?" She gestured with the handkerchief.

"Nearly a week," Frodo said tiredly.

A brief knock at the door, and Sam poked his head in. "Are you ready, Mr. Frodo?"

Frodo and Rosie exchanged a glance, and she got up from the chair and returned her attention to half-dressed bed. "Yes, I'm ready," Frodo replied.

Rosie waited in the bedroom until Sam brought Frodo back. She helped tuck Frodo in, and used that excuse to catch his eye and wordlessly ask if he'd told Sam anything. Frodo shook his head -my, but he looked tuckered out- and gestured for her to do it. She nodded and pressed a clean handkerchief into his hand; Frodo's lips curved in a half-hearted smile in response. He waved toward the door, and Rosie took Sam's hand.

"Come along, my Sam. I think Mr. Frodo is trying to say that he wants to sleep."

Sam let himself be tugged down the hall to their bedroom, where Rosie didn't even let go of his hand while she shut the door. He wasn't sure what to expect, with her face all tight like that, especially when she had him sit in a chair by the fire rather than on the bed. "Rosie?" he asked uncertainly.

"Sam . . . oh, Sam," she said helplessly, pacing in front of him, wringing her hands. Finally, she pulled the handkerchief and thrust it at him.

Sam took it from her and fingered it uncertainly, holding it up to peer at the speckles. "What . . .?"

"It's blood. He's got the consumption, Sam," Rosie said gently.

"But . . . no . . ." Sam shook his head vehemently. He knew what it meant to have the consumption, one of his cousins up in Tighfield had died of it only a few years back. But his cousin had been sick for years! Mr. Frodo has only been sick for a couple of months, it can't be so bad as all that. But the blood . . . his face blanched.

Rosie knelt in front of him, her hands on his knees. "Sam, I don't know how long . . . it might be."

"It'll be a while; my cousin was sick for a long time," Sam said with a bravado he didn't really feel.

Rosie shook her head and bowed it, leaning her forehead on Sam's knee. "I don't know about that, Sam. He's sicker than he lets on, I think, and there's an anniversary coming."

Sam sighed and rested a hand on her head. "He's stubborn, he'll hold on," he insisted.

Rosie snorted and raised her head. "You are something else, Sam Gamgee," she said, throwing her hands up in exasperation. She stood and took back the handkerchief. "Try to get some sleep. I'm going to start breakfast."

Sam clasped her hand as she turned to leave. "Won't you join me for a bit? It's far too early to start breakfast."

"It's past dawn, and I have bread to make," Rosie said, kissing the back of his hand, then patted it and pulled her hand away.

"At least get dressed first? I'll help," Sam wheedled.

Rosie laughed. "Oh, you! All right, I'll get dressed first."

* * *

"Time to wake up, Mr. Frodo," Rosie said cheerily, running a hand through his hair and gently patting his face. When Frodo opened his eyes, she took his breakfast tray from Rose-lass, who had been waiting in the doorway, and took it to the bed. "I've got some second breakfast for you."

"Second breakfast? You let me sleep in," Frodo said groggily. He held up a hand when Rosie tried to put the tray on his lap. "If you don't mind, I need to get up for a moment," he said, pushing back the covers.

"Of course," Rosie said, setting the tray near the end of the bed instead and busied herself opening the curtains and tending the fire.

"Did you let me sleep just so you could coerce me into eating a bit more now?" Frodo asked while he did his business on the privy seat.

"What, is everything is about you now? Perhaps I didn't wake you earlier because I had things to do, bread to bake. I'd like to see you keep this many mouths fed seven times a day!" Rosie's rant was interrupted by Frodo's laughter.

"I'm sorry Rosie, I was only poking fun," he said, trying to look suitably repentant as she glared at him, but couldn't keep from chuckling.

Rosie laughed too. "I should've known, coming from you," she said, wagging her finger at him. "But yes, I do expect you to eat a respectable amount, and don't you forget it."

"Yes, ma'am," Frodo said, grinning. He stood and headed back to his bed, but as he took the single step required to cross the distance, he stumbled and fell heavily against the bed, his startled grip on the bedding preventing him from sliding to the floor. Rosie had gone back to the other side of the bed to retrieve Frodo's breakfast and saw him fall out of the corner of her eye. She gasped and was torn between rushing around to help him and reaching over the bed to grab his arms to keep him from falling further. But in the moment she spent debating, Frodo regained his feet. "Ow," he grumbled as he successfully, albeit gingerly, finished getting back in bed.

"Are you all right?" She waited until he had settled himself and the bedding to his satisfaction before setting the tray over his lap.

"I'll be sore for a bit, that's certain, but I think I'm all right."

"What happened?"

Frodo shrugged. "I must've tripped over my own feet. And before you ask, no, I've not had that happen before." He eyed his breakfast. "You were rather . . . optimistic in putting this together, I think."

"You know very well that you aren't expected to eat all of it," Rosie retorted. "You're just that picky, and we're trying to make sure that *something* on that tray will be acceptable enough for you to eat it."

Frodo frowned and took her hand. "I'm not that picky," he said quietly. "I take it you talked to Sam and it didn't go well."

Rosie sighed heavily and pulled her hand from his, then rounded the bed and sagged into the armchair. "I talked, but he didn't seem to really listen. He's got it in his head that it'll be a while afore you die."

"He could be right," Frodo said judiciously.

Rosie continued as if she hadn't heard him. "And there's just so much what's been going through my head that needs to be done. We'll need to tell your cousins, but when? And how? When should I tell Elanor? When should we tell the children? Should we wait to tell the younger ones until you're sicker? Is there anything you'll need to do for the estate? Should the young ones be here when you go, or should they be sent away? When?" She stopped to take a breath. "There's more, but I don't know as you're wanting to think about it just yet."

Frodo nodded. "We'll need to think about all of it, and for my heart's ease, I'd like to know that you have most of these things decided before I fall ill on the thirteenth. I would feel better if I knew Sam was accepting of the idea, but that can't be forced."

Silence fell as Rosie stewed and Frodo picked at his food. "I'll write to Merry and Pippin," Frodo said after a while. "Fatty we can tell in person, of course. And I think it would be best if Rose-lass, Frodo-lad, and Goldilocks were told fairly soon, since they're the ones that help me the most. When to tell the younger ones is up to you -I'm sure they'll have a lot of questions. Especially Tom." Frodo smiled fondly, and idly stirred his porridge.

"Aye, I'll tell the older ones in a bit, then. For the time being, I take it that you want to continue as you have been, with the stories every other day and all?"

"Oh, yes. I intend to continue that until I am no longer able," Frodo said firmly.

"And if Sam or I think you aren't able? Will you listen to us?" Rosie asked shrewdly.

Frodo paused, then said diplomatically, "I will hear you out, but I cannot guarantee that I'll agree with you."

"That's about what I expected," Rosie said, rising from the chair. "Are you finished with your food, then?"

"Yes, I'm finished, thank you," Frodo replied, setting the spoon down and allowing her to take the tray after he had picked up the glass of apple juice he hadn't yet touched. "Why don't you have Sam sit with me while you talk to Rose-lass and the other two?"

Rosie nodded. "Good idea," she said. "I'm sure he'll be here pretty quick."

"No hurry," Frodo said, raising his glass as she started to leave the room. "I'm not going anywhere."

Rosie laughed and disappeared down the hall. Sam arrived a short while later; Frodo was about halfway through his juice. "Good morning, Mr. Frodo," Sam greeted him cheerfully, peering out the window before settling in the chair beside the bed. "Soon enough it'll be time to do the spring planting in the garden."

"Yes, it is March already, isn't it," Frodo agreed musingly, watching Sam carefully. "Would you mind fetching me some paper, a pen and ink, and that tray Rosie uses for my food? I'm going to write to Merry and Pippin."

"It would be easier for you to have Rose-lass write it," Sam objected almost immediately. "I thought as you couldn't write these days."

Frodo flexed the fingers of his right hand experimentally. "My hand is stiff, certainly, but this is a letter I think I ought to write myself, even if it takes me all day."

Sam frowned. "Must you?"

"Yes, Sam, I must," Frodo said, exasperated. "But if you're that concerned, I'll have you write it if I find I cannot." He would have said more, but had to cough.

Sam watched Frodo pull a handkerchief out of his sleeve and cough into it, then he sipped his juice before speaking again.

"You see, I rather think Merry and Pippin ought to know about this," he held up the handkerchief to display its fresh dotting of blood. "And I'd rather they hear it from me."

Sam sighed, but nodded. "Aye, the only way they'll believe it is straight from the pony's mouth, as it were."

"Yes. Now, please, let us speak of something else."

It took a few moments for Sam to come up with a subject of conversation, but a recent letter from Merry about the upcoming Gondorian New Year party he and Pippin were planning provided a good topic, since Frodo didn't even know it was celebrated in the Shire. This kept them busy for a while, with Frodo asking eager questions that Sam couldn't always answer, as he had never actually been to one of the New Year's parties either. He just heard about them, and tried without success to institute the holiday in Hobbiton and Michel Delving.

Rosie interrupted the discussion when she and Rose-lass brought in elevenses. Rosie stayed and ate with them, then shooed Sam off to get the paper and pen for Frodo while she took the dishes and fetched a rag to wipe the tray. When she found out he intended to write Merry and Pippin, she told him to tell him they were free to come by, if they would like to visit.

Rose-lass sat with him, silently doing her mending while he stared at the blank paper and despaired about what to write. How does one write such a letter? He agonized through luncheon, after which he was so exhausted from the fretting and being awake all morning that he had to take a nap. Sam woke him for afternoon tea, and finally Frodo thought he knew what to say.

It took him far more time and effort than he'd anticipated, and even so the letter had blotches and smears, but he managed to write it. He squinted at it, hoping Merry would be able to read it. Conveniently, Frodo-lad appeared at that moment to take him to his bath, but Frodo asked him to first read the letter to make sure it was legible. Frodo-lad murmured the words as he read them, finally handing it back and saying it was perfectly readable. Frodo allowed himself to be taken for his bath then, hoping to write Pippin's letter afterward -it would be virtually the same, after all, with only a few minor adjustments, so it wouldn't take nearly so long to do.

Frodo-lad was unusually quiet that evening, so Frodo had to pester him for the usual description of the day's events -Frodo felt quite isolated in his room sometimes, so Frodo-lad had begun telling him about what everyone else did during the day while Frodo was in the bath. Finally, Frodo said, "I don't know exactly what Rosie told you, but nothing about me or my condition has changed since yesterday."

"But I didn't know you were dying yesterday," Frodo-lad said morosely.

Frodo chuckled. "What, did you really think I was going to get better?"

Frodo-lad said nothing, staring thoughtfully but unseeingly at the tub. Frodo was content to let him think it over, and rested his head on the lip of the tub, closing his eyes and listening to the crackling of the fire, the gentle rippling of the water against the tub, his own wheezy breathing.

"In October . . ." Frodo-lad began, but stopped and started anew. "You said . . . do you still want to die? Like you said in October?"

Frodo opened his eyes to see the lad's intent gaze was upon him, and he smiled a little. "That is a very good question," he said. "I've been asking myself the same thing for days. Not that I could change things by deciding I don't want to die, but it feels like it makes a difference somehow."

Frodo-lad nodded slowly.

"On the one hand, I will no longer be a burden on your parents and your family. I'll no longer have to put up with all of the things I can't do anymore -it has been difficult to adjust to being old when I only remember being middle-aged. And dying means I won't have to fear the anniversaries, the memories, or the madness anymore." Frodo paused, watching water drip from his fingers as he held one hand up as if to illustrate his point. He was mildly amused to notice he'd used his wounded hand.

"On the other hand, I feel like I'm serving a purpose in telling the Story. If I had more time, I could tell it properly and entirely, rather than only talking about my own part -and your father's, of course- and leaving out many details that are in the Red Book. Your siblings are delightful, though I'm sure you don't often think so, and I am happy I have been able to get to know all of you in the time I've had." Frodo had to stop to collect his thoughts.

"So I suppose the answer to your question is yes and no. I would not try to end it now, but I also do not mind that my story will reach its end sooner rather than later." Frodo shrugged, then shivered.

Frodo-lad fetched the towel and helped him out of the cool bathwater. Neither hobbit spoke while they finished the bathtime routine, engrossed in his own thoughts.

Once back in his room and his bed, Frodo ate supper quickly to get to writing Pippin's letter before he was too tired to hold the pen. It took him a bit to write it, for his hand was already protesting its use earlier, but he finished just as he thought he couldn't stay upright a moment longer. Frodo-lad confirmed it also could be read, then Frodo murmured a request that he seal them up and make sure they made it into the next day's Post before sinking into an exhausted sleep. Frodo-lad rescued the tray with the pen and ink from Frodo's lap, and set it by the door to put away later, but he kept the letters for the moment. He found he needed to re-read them.

_My dearest Merry,_

_I hope you and your family are well. Sam tells me you and Pippin are preparing for the Gondorian New Year celebration. It must be quite a party, to require nearly a month's planning each year! I find it curious that you and Pip were able to persuade your neighbors to participate in such an 'outlandish' practice; Sam says a similar observance in Hobbiton was never well-received, so only he and Rosie and the children recognize the day nowadays._

_I wish I could come and see this new holiday, but my health will not permit it. I know you're aware that I have been ill; it has recently become apparent the consumption is what ails me, which makes more sense than the lung sickness as the Hobbiton healer insists on calling it, but it has the disadvantage of there being only one possible outcome. I do not wish to worry you, for I am not so bad off just yet, but I thought it best to make you aware of how things stand with me before any crisis occurs._

_Rosie says it is quite all right if you wish to visit, though I am more than content with your letters, particularly since I am sure my appearance is capable of frightening the unwary -or so I assume, for they don't let me near a mirror these days. If you do decide to visit, I would ask that you do so before the 13th, for I have some fears about how the expected illness on that day will affect my condition. Please do not feel that you must visit, for there is nothing that needs to be said between us; I am certain you already know how very proud I am of you, and that I love you dearly._

_Do not worry about me, my dear cousin, for I am content._

_Ever your affectionate cousin,_

_Frodo_


	12. Two Visits

Wordcount: 6,796 for this part

A/N: The medical-type stuff in this fic has not been run by those who know more about such things than I do, so no guarantees that it is realistic despite the research I did.

Warning: We have progressed to the point in which Frodo's death is openly discussed. Also, there are bodily functions and other such things present (but you could probably guess that).

.

Chapter Summary: Frodo is visited by his cousins.

* * *

Frodo stopped talking when Rosie stood to answer a knock at the door. She motioned for him to continue and quickly padded down the hall to the front door. "Pippin!" she said in surprise upon seeing the hobbit on the doorstep. "Please, come in."

Pippin entered hesitantly. "Is Frodo awake?"

"Oh, aye. He's telling more of his story," Rosie said, inclining her head toward Frodo's bedroom. "You can listen and talk to him after, if you like."

Pippin nodded, brightening. "That would be nice."

"Who's making all this noise out here?" Sam asked, coming to investigate who Rosie was talking to. "Ah, Pippin! Good to see you."

"Oh, Sam," Pippin said, patting his coat's pockets, then pulling out a piece of parchment and handing it to Sam. "A letter, for Goldi. From Faramir."

Sam unfolded the unsealed letter and skimmed the contents, nodded, and folded it again.

"I expect he and I will be paying you a visit by Midsummer for permission to court her," Pippin confided.

"Finally!" Rosie exclaimed. "They've only been eying one another since they was bairns."

Sam chuckled. "Can't say as I'd say no, though 'twould be fun to make him fret a while."

Pippin laughed. Rosie shook her head in exasperation and said, "We ought to go back in, if you're going to hear any of today's story, Pippin."

"Of course. Lead the way."

Sam fetched another chair and set it behind the chairs he and Rosie occupied. Frodo faltered when he saw Pippin, then smiled and continued. Pippin sat back in his chair and listened and watched with interest, having only rarely seen Frodo as storyteller and rather enjoying it.

When Frodo had concluded with the oliphaunt trampling through the forest of Ithilien, mere yards from Sam and the two Men who guarded the hobbits, it took a few moments for anyone to move or even breathe. Then several of the children noticed Pippin at once and swarmed around him for hugs and pig-a-back rides. Pippin herded them out into the hall so Sam and Rosie could put away the chairs they'd used. "Are you enjoying your uncle Frodo's story?" he asked them.

Several nodded at once, and Tom said eagerly, "Oh, yes!"

"He's not telling you everything, you know. Your uncle Merry and I had our own adventures."

"He said he didn't have enough time to tell us everything," Tom said with something resembling disappointment.

"Well, then I guess Merry and I will have to come and tell you our parts, hm?"

"Oh, would you?" Tom asked, nearly bouncing with excitement.

"I think we can do that," Pippin said, patting his shoulder and nodding. Several hopeful faces were watching the exchange, and he looked at them in turn. "Yes, we'll have to talk to your father to figure out when. Now, if you would excuse me, I need to go talk to your uncle Frodo." He left them in the hall and ventured into Frodo's room. "Have a few minutes for me, cousin?"

"Certainly," Frodo answered, opening his eyes and sitting up a bit straighter against his pillows. "What brought you here?"

"I was nearby," Pippin said, not meeting Frodo's gaze as he sat in the chair. "We're going up to Long Cleeve for a fortnight, for Diamond's birthday. I . . . got your letter yesterday, so I thought I'd stop in and see you along the way. I can't stay long, they're waiting for me at Waymeet."

Frodo nodded. "Do you go to Long Cleeve every year?" he asked, avoiding, for the moment, his letter and the news it conveyed.

"Only when we're not hosting the New Year," Pippin replied. "It keeps Diamond happy, which keeps me happy."

Frodo chuckled. "Naturally. I take it you'll be back from Long Cleeve in time for the New Year?"

"Oh, yes, we'll probably go straight from Long Cleeve to Buckland, and stay there until after."

"I have tea for you both," Rosie said as she entered, bearing a tray and settling it over Frodo's lap. "Eat what you can, Mr. Frodo, and I'm sure Pippin here will help you with the rest."

"I'm sure he will," Frodo agreed. "So, Pippin, tell me about this New Year celebration."

Pippin happily described the meals and the dancing and the sparklers and the attempts at fireworks -though Gandalf's were far superior to any they managed to make. Frodo listened attentively, sipping his tea and nibbling at a blueberry muffin, though by the time Pippin seemed to be near finished, he was having trouble keeping his eyelids from sagging. Pippin did notice his cousin's sleepiness, and brought his descriptions to a close, having long ago finished his tea and muffins. He set his cup on the tray, then picked up and held Frodo's hand that had settled atop the quilt.

Frodo opened his eyes and smiled slightly. "I'm sorry I'll miss such a grand party."

"Oh, don't fret about it. We'll just have to bring the party to you sometime."

"That might be nice," Frodo said slowly. They lapsed into silence, Frodo closing his eyes again and Pippin watching him, thinking about the letter and Frodo being ill and what it all might mean. He looked pale and tired, that was for certain, but he didn't seem too sick. Then again, this was Frodo, who would carry on with a smile until he passed out from exhaustion if that was what was expected of him. It was hard to tell the true state of things if he didn't want you to know.

Pippin involuntarily squeezed Frodo's hand as this train of thought roared through his mind. Frodo's lips curved into a smile and he said, "I love you, too."

"Who said anything about loving? I was just trying to make sure you weren't falling asleep on me!" Pippin immediately retorted, but he was also so very glad when Frodo squeezed his hand back.

"I'm not asleep just yet," Frodo said drowsily. "Should you be going? I don't want to keep you from your family."

"I see them all the time," Pippin replied dismissively. "Besides, you're family, too. But I don't want to keep you from resting, so I suppose I should leave now."

"It was very nice to see you," Frodo told him earnestly, clutching his hand.

"I'm glad I came," Pippin answered, meaning every word. "I'll come by again when I can."

"All right," Frodo said, releasing Pippin's hand. "Tell your family I said hello."

"I will." Pippin rose from the chair and took the tray from Frodo's lap. "And I do love you."

Frodo grinned. "I know."

Pippin took the tray to the kitchen, where he found Rosie putting the finishing touches on a shepherd's pie for dinner. She gave him some food for the road, and he asked for paper and a pen to write a quick note. She fetched them for him, and he penned a short letter to Merry, telling of his visit and suggesting that Merry also drop in and perhaps try to find out from Frodo how he was really feeling. Pippin took the letter straight to the post-office, then rode off to Waymeet.

* * *

Merry had already been planning to pay a visit to Bag End after he went to Michel Delving to officially invite the Mayor and his folk to the Gondorian New Year in Buckland (he ordinarily sent the invitation via Post, but figured an in-person delivery wouldn't go amiss). Then he received Pippin's letter and decided to leave the very next day, sensing an unspoken worry in Pippin's words. He arrived at the Ivy Bush near midnight and started out for Michel Delving first thing in the morning.

Fatty was happy to see him despite the early hour, and they chatted comfortably for a short while about a number of things. After a bit, Merry steered the conversation toward Frodo and Fatty obliged, having gone to Bag End on a regular basis since stepping in as Deputy Mayor. Merry listened with growing unease as Fatty told him all that Rosie had told him, including Sam's refusal to accept that Frodo would never recover and the distress this was causing Frodo. When Fatty had said all he could, Merry took his leave and hurried back to Hobbiton, stopping briefly in Waymeet to grab a bite to eat for luncheon.

Merry stopped at the Ivy Bush to leave the poor pony at its stable -he had borrowed a pony that morning, since his was still exhausted from the ride the day before- and patted his own pony on his way out. He heaved a deep breath outside the stable and started the trudge up to Bag End. It was a familiar walk, so Merry turned his attention to his thoughts rather than the road.

He went around the hole and entered through the kitchen, somewhat surprised to find no one there. He washed his feet and went in search of the voice he could hear drifting through the smial. Merry stopped just short of Frodo's room so he wouldn't be seen, realizing that the voice he'd heard was Frodo's. Pippin had mentioned the story-telling, but Merry hadn't quite expected this.

Merry peeked around the doorway, watching Frodo and listening, impressed that he could keep his composure while describing the terror he and Sam felt in Shelob's lair. No one noticed Merry lurking in the doorway until Frodo had finished and Sam and Rosie rose to move their chairs so the children could leave the room. Sam greeted him warmly and Merry said something in reply, his eyes fixed on Frodo. One of the young ones -Tom, Merry thought he remembered- stopped by him and asked if he and Uncle Pippin would really come and tell their story. Pippin had mentioned that in his letter, as well, so Merry assented and Tom's face lit up. He hugged Merry's knees and scampered off.

Frodo's bedroom had emptied of all but Frodo himself and Frodo-lad by the time Merry had extricated himself from Tom and several of the other youngsters -sometimes he really wondered how Sam and Rosie could manage a brood of such size. "Ah, Merry, I thought that was you I saw," Frodo said as Merry entered the room.

"Yes, I'm here."

"Would you mind stepping out for a moment so I can get back in bed? We can talk after that."

"I can help you," Merry objected.

"I would rather you didn't."

"Why? What do you have to hide?" Merry knelt next to the chair and put his hand on Frodo's knee.

"I'm not hiding anything," Frodo insisted. "I simply prefer not to be watched while I do my business!" He gestured toward the wooden seat next to the bed.

Merry understood, but didn't back down. "Then have Frodo-lad leave and I'll stay."

"I can leave," Frodo-lad agreed quickly. "I'm sure Uncle Merry will do just as well as me."

Merry nodded in appreciation to the lad, who left the room and closed the door before Frodo could object. Frodo sighed. "It always seems like a conspiracy whenever you're involved. All right, help me up, then." Frodo moved his lap blanket aside and started to stand, leaning heavily on the arms of the chair.

Merry helped him to the wooden seat, noticing that Frodo's right leg didn't seem to move properly, but Frodo appeared to be adapting well enough to hobble along. When Frodo was finished, he insisted on getting back into bed himself, saying, "I'd rather do as much as I can for as long as I can. Surely you can understand."

Merry could indeed understand, so he stepped back and resigned himself to help only if Frodo needed it. But Frodo managed to get back into bed without assistance. Merry did help tuck him in, for once Frodo had settled against his pillows he seemed to lose whatever energy he still had left. All he could do was lie back and pant, periodically coughing into a handkerchief. Merry watched wordlessly, then used his own handkerchief to dab the sweat from Frodo's forehead. "How are you?" he asked gently, sitting on the edge of the bed and taking Frodo's hand.

Frodo chuckled dryly. "Old and sick," he replied, still a little breathless.

Merry chuckled in turn. "I suppose that was a silly question," he admitted. "Maybe this is a better one: is there anything I can do or get for you right now?"

"That is a better question," Frodo agreed. "I don't know . . . some water, maybe." He started coughing again, and Merry waited for a moment, then decided the best thing he could do was get the water. He had to go around to the other side of the bed to the pitcher and cup on the bedside table, and even after he was ready with the cup, Frodo was still coughing.

Merry put the cup down and sat on the bed again and held Frodo while he coughed, wincing as he felt his cousin jerk against him and imagining how much it must be hurting him. When Frodo finally stopped coughing, he leaned against Merry for several moments, trying to catch his breath. "I think I need that water now," he said.

Merry let go of him and retrieved the water, carefully handing it to him and keeping one hand close to steady it if necessary. Frodo sipped slowly, breathing carefully; Merry watched him anxiously, relieved when Frodo didn't seem likely to start coughing again. "You missed a bit," Merry said, gesturing toward the corner of his mouth.

Frodo quickly raised his handkerchief to dab at the spot; the handkerchief came away with a bit of blood on it. Frodo grimaced. "I'm sorry . . . you shouldn't have to see that."

"Don't be sorry," Merry said quickly. "It is what it is. I'm just sorry you are suffering so."

"I have a bit of tea here for you," came Rosie's voice from the door. Merry rose to get out of the way of her putting the tray down over Frodo's lap and went to sit on the other side of the bed again. "Merry, if you need anything more, do let me know. You look like you've been travelling, and I'm going to guess you haven't stopped for every meal."

Merry laughed. "Your eyes do not deceive you," he replied. "But I think this will be enough, thank you."

Rosie turned her attention to Frodo a moment, her hand straying to cup his face, and they seemed to converse without speaking. Merry felt Rosie's eyes on him again, then she said, "Call if either of you need anything," and left the room.

Merry hungrily tucked into a scone, and after taking a few bites sufficient to curb the edge of his appetite, he said, "The lad that was in here earlier, that was the eldest, Frodo, yes?"

Frodo nodded. "Yes, Frodo-lad. He is . . . very protective, once he decides to like you."

Merry chuckled. "I take it he hasn't always favored you, then."

"Gracious, no. Last year I could have sworn he loathed me, but now he's as attentive as any hobbit could wish. Perhaps a little too much so, even."

Merry inquired further about Sam's heir, and was mostly satisfied with what he heard. He asked about Sam's other children, seeing that this was a good topic for Frodo. Frodo could tell him a good deal about each one's temperament and habits; he'd always been a good judge of character, and he'd obviously enjoyed the time he'd had to spend with them during the previous year. He was particularly fond of young Tolman, Merry could tell from his voice as he talked of the youngest lad, and he had to ask, "Do they know?"

Frodo sighed and seemed to age ten years in a moment. "The elder ones, those that help care for me, they know. I don't think the rest do, at least in part because Sam doesn't want to tell them. He seems to think I'll get better, or at least take a good long time to die."

Merry saw without saying that Frodo didn't agree. He put the tea tray on the floor -Frodo had long since stopped pretending to eat his scone, and Merry already finished the rest- and sat next to Frodo on the bed so he could put his arm around him. "How long do you think it will be?" he asked quietly. "Your letter said you were concerned about the thirteenth."

Frodo's shoulders shrugged against his arm. "I am concerned," he admitted. "Because I don't know what will happen. Part of me . . ." his voice trailed off.

"Part of you what? Wishes it would just be over?" Merry guessed.

Frodo's face crumpled and he began to weep. Merry held him tightly, rocking gently, and thought about shushing him, but decided it might be for the best to let him be. After a few minutes Frodo-lad stuck his head in the door. Merry gestured for him to leave, but Frodo-lad made a motion like he was carrying the tea tray and gestured behind him to indicate he would take it out for them. Merry thought that was all right, so he nodded and pointed to where he'd put it down; Frodo-lad quietly picked it up and left again, closing the door behind him.

"I'm sorry," Frodo said after some time, sniffling and blowing his nose in his handkerchief. "I feel guilty for thinking such when they are taking such good care of me, and it seems especially foolish when I also think it's not fair that I'm going to die," he admitted quietly, still leaning heavily against Merry's chest.

"You shouldn't feel guilty," Merry told him. "My mum felt the same way."

Frodo remained silent for a moment, trying to think if he knew what happened to his aunt Esmeralda but coming up completely blank. "I'm sorry . . . what . . . when . . ." he couldn't seem to come out with the right question to ask.

"She died years ago," Merry told him, understanding his difficulty. "I apologize for not telling you."

Frodo waved his hand dismissively. "You may have told me; I don't always remember things well. How did she die?"

"She had the consumption," Merry said matter-of-factly, trying not to let his voice betray how his heart clenched when he said it.

"Oh, Merry," Frodo breathed, sliding his arm around Merry's chest in an awkward hug. "I'm so sorry. All of this must be difficult for you."

Merry hugged him back. "It doesn't change much, really. Now, if you're done being mopey, I have something that might make you laugh."

"Oh? What do you have?' Frodo asked curiously.

Merry carefully extricated himself from Frodo and rose. "Well, if I can find where I left my bag . . ." he scanned the floor, then opened the door to peer into the hallway. Spying his saddlebag by the doorway where he'd dropped it when he'd first come to Frodo's room, he picked it up and closed the door again. "Estella sent it. She said you gave it to her when she was barely more than a faunt, and she wanted you to have it for a while so you know we're thinking of you." With that explanation, he pulled out a threadbare stuffed bear, patched in several places and missing one of its button eyes.

Frodo stared at the bear with astonishment. "She still has Mr. Fuzzy? That thing was old when I found it!" He took it from Merry and grinned. "She called it Mr. Fuzzy because he didn't have any fuzz even back then. Somehow that made perfect sense to her."

Merry laughed. "She claims you're to blame for the name. I'll have to tell her I finally know the truth."

Frodo chuckled. "If she prefers to think it's my fault, I'm willing to let her. The bear won't be revealing his secrets anytime soon."

Merry dropped his bag on the chair and sat on the bed facing Frodo. "Do you need to sleep? You look exhausted."

"So do you," Frodo replied, trying unsuccessfully to get Mr. Fuzzy to sit on the edge of his bedside table. Finally he just let him lie there instead, the button eye staring vacantly at the ceiling.

"So you'll sleep if I do, is that it?"

Frodo shrugged. "Eventually I'll sleep no matter what, so I can't force you to do anything. I was just making an observation. Do you have to leave soon?"

"No, not yet. I'll be heading back to Buckland in the morning, so I can stay a while yet." Merry shifted so he was sitting the same direction as Frodo. "Move over a touch, I think this bed is big enough for both of us."

Frodo moved, and let Merry slide an arm behind his back as he laid down on his side next to him. With Merry next to him so, he felt warm and loved; he felt he could bear just about anything.

"How is that?" Merry's voice rumbled in his chest. "Is there anything you need before you sleep?"

"This is fine, and no, thank you. Just . . . I want to be buried by my parents . . . is that . . .?"

"I'll take care of it," Merry assured him.

Frodo sighed. "Thank you. It's much too early for that, I know, but I wanted to make sure . . ."

"Of course you did." Merry pressed a kiss to his forehead. "Now sleep."

"Yes, sir," Frodo said, a hint of a smile on his lips as he closed his eyes.

Merry watched and listened for a while as Frodo slept, then fell asleep himself for a time. He woke to a sliver of light from the hallway falling across the bed from the slightly open door, darkness having fallen outside and the fire burned low from lack of attention. He raised his head a bit to peer at the figure outlined in the light, then asked quietly, "What is the time?"

"About dinnertime," Rosie's voice responded in just more than a whisper. "I'm sorry, I hope I didn't wake you. Are you staying for dinner, then? I made enough for you, just in case."

"Yes, if you don't mind, and for supper too, if it's no trouble. I'll be leaving for Buckland in the morning, so . . ."

He could see her head bob. "It's no trouble at all, you ought to know that by now. Will you want to eat in here with Mr. Frodo?"

"Please."

"Is he still asleep?"

"You can stop talking about me like I can't hear you," Frodo grumbled.

Rosie opened the door wider and entered, bringing a lamp that she set on his bedside table. "I'm sorry, dear, but how am I to know you're awake when it's so terribly dark in here?" she asked, lighting the candles on the wall, on the mantel, and on the windowsill.

"Dark is better for sleeping," Frodo pointed out. "And it's not my fault you put me in a room with a window that faces north."

Merry chuckled and Rosie shook her head good-naturedly. "But you're awake now, and I'm going to bring in your dinner," she said. "When I return, I expect to see you fully upright and smiling. Well, perhaps not smiling. Upright will do." She winked and left.

.

Merry remained in Frodo's room for much of the evening, leaving only when Frodo was taken to have his bath. Rosie had him sit in the kitchen then, and asked him for his thoughts on Frodo. He told her of Frodo's request, and that he was in more pain than he was admitting, judging by how he was breathing and not seeming to rest quite comfortably. Sam joined them partway through the conversation and sat down with Merry at the table with a cup of tea, but he spoke little and frowned often.

When Rosie told Merry of their trouble with the healer thus far, and that he still likely thought it was the lung ailment (as he hadn't been to Bag End since before Frodo admitted to coughing up blood), Merry offered to write to the Healer of the Hall to request anything she could send to make Frodo more comfortable. "She'd even be willing to come and see him personally, I'm sure of it," he said.

"He don't need that," Sam replied firmly.

"No, I don't think he does," Rosie agreed. "But anything that could be sent would be a great help. Trying to get anything out of young Toby is like pulling hen's teeth."

"I'll write to her before I leave, and have the Ivy Bush send it on its way tonight," Merry said resolutely. Being able to help in any small way was a great relief.

Rosie joined them at the table, sitting next to Sam and across from Merry and asked seriously, "From what you know of your mum's sickness . . . how do you think he is doing?"

Merry sighed and ran his hand through his hair, realizing as he did so that he couldn't remember combing it this morning. "Honestly? He wasn't strong even when he was well." He bit his lip, wishing she hadn't asked but knowing that this was the one question they most needed an answer to. "I could be wrong -Frodo has astonished wiser and smarter folk than me- but I'd say he has a month left, at most."

Rosie closed her eyes swiftly and clenched her hands together, but nodded. "Aye, 'tis about what I expected."

But Sam wasn't convinced. "You can't just give up on him," he argued. "Your mum was ailing for a good long time, why should Mr. Frodo be different?"

"My mother was not confined to bed for most of that time," Merry countered. "Once she was weak enough to require remaining in bed -as Frodo has been this entire time, I might point out- she left us rather quickly. And I'll thank you not to use my mother for your arguments; you have no right."

"But you've got the right to come in here and tell us we're not taking good enough care of Mr. Frodo? Where have you been all these years?" Sam asked angrily, held back from rising from his seat by Rosie's restraining hand on his arm.

"I never said you weren't taking good enough care of Frodo," Merry said patiently. "I'm offering you the help of someone who has dealt with someone in this condition before, since your healer doesn't seem willing or able to give you what you need to keep him comfortable."

"He's always been a bit of a bumbling idiot," Sam reluctantly agreed. "But I still think you're giving up on him, talking about burying and only having a month and all that."

"Frodo brought up the burying," Merry reminded him.

"You didn't tell him about the month thing, did you?" Sam abruptly demanded.

"No."

"So he doesn't know you think he'll die soon?"

"No, but it doesn't matter what I think. He knows he'll die sooner rather than later. Heavens, he said in his letter he's worried about the thirteenth, so I think he's realized it might not be too much longer," Merry replied, exasperated.

"Did you talk to him about it?" Sam pressed.

"About what? Being ill? Dying?"

"Aye, that. About him . . ." Sam seemed unable to say the word, so Merry finished the statement.

"Dying. You know, you can say the word without it causing him to keel over," he said gently. Sam stared down at his hands on the tabletop. "I let him talk, and I listened. He has to get used to the idea same as you, and it helps him to be able to talk to someone about it. But you can't bear to hear it, can you? You frown and change the subject or even leave the room, he told me." Merry could see his words were discomfiting Sam, but continued to push the matter for Frodo's sake. "It's making him anxious, not having you to talk to. He worries about you, about how you'll take it if he dies before you're ready to let him go."

"Stop!" Sam choked out, clenching his hands as if holding on for dear life. "Of course I can't bear to hear it! It's all nonsense. He'd feel better if he'd just stop obsessing about being gone."

Merry shook his head in disbelief. "Believe what you like, Samwise Gamgee, but it's not going to change what is. Facts are facts, and the fact is that Frodo is dying and there's nothing any of us can do about it." He rose, still staring at the top of Sam's bent head. "Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go spend a little while longer with my cousin before I leave."

He stalked out of the kitchen and partway down the hall; then the weight of the conversation and his parting words stopped him and he leaned against the wall, shoulders shaking. Frodo is dying. His own words haunted him, their full import only beginning to sink in. Impatiently he shut away the looming grief; he couldn't give in now, not when he still had to face Frodo. Tomorrow, on the road when there would be no one but him and the pony . . . then he could allow tears. But not now.

Straightening, he regained his composure and decided to check the bathing room for Frodo; he suspected his cousin would have greeted them from the hall if he'd gone past the kitchen during the . . . disagreement. He probably would have been distressed to see them arguing about him, Merry reflected with a bit of a smile.

Frodo was indeed still in the bathing room, perched over his cushion. "You certainly take your time in the bath," Merry teased.

Frodo lifted his head from his arms. "You'll understand when you get to be my age," he replied with a smirk. "Or perhaps a bit older. I feel far too creaky for my years."

"Serves you right for all those years that you didn't age at all," Merry replied, realizing after he'd said it that it may be a bad subject to broach.

Frodo chuckled. "I suppose it is." He peered at Merry for a moment, then said, "Let me guess, you've been trying to 'talk sense' into Sam."

"He's the stubbornest hobbit in the Shire," Merry said by way of confirmation as he sat on the floor near Frodo's head.

"I thought *I* was the stubbornest hobbit in the Shire," Frodo said, pouting. "You've told me so more than once."

Merry made a show of thinking for a moment. "You still are," he agreed. "Sam is the stubbornest hobbit in the West Farthing. How's that?"

"Better." Frodo glanced back toward Frodo-lad. "Remember that discretion is a large part of being a successful Master of Bag End."

"I wouldn't say a word," Frodo-lad replied, grinning. "Especially since I happen to agree."

Merry laughed. "I think he'll do fine," he said to Frodo, with a wink at Frodo-lad.

"Mhmm," Frodo assented, laying his head back down on his folded arms.

Merry offered to carry Frodo back to his room. By the time they made it into the hallway, Frodo was laughing. "You'd better not run me into the doorway, you big oaf. It's not my fault you're overgrown."

"Overgrown!" Merry said indignantly. "I ought to drop you for that. What do you have to say about that?"

"Ouch," Frodo replied as Merry shifted his hold slightly.

"Sorry," Merry said quickly.

"No, no, that's what I'd say if you dropped me," Frodo said, still laughing.

"Ah. Well, let's see if I can put you down without making you say ouch."

Though Merry was careful, Frodo had to grit his teeth as he was set down, his back flaring with pain as his weight shifted. When he was settled, he said, "There. No ouch."

"But you're hurting," Merry said.

Frodo wasn't sure how he could tell; it seemed uncanny. "They'll come and dose me for the evening soon. I'll be all right."

"Why don't you ever tell Rosie that what they're giving you isn't enough?"

"What do you mean?"

"You sleep like you're uncomfortable."

Truly uncanny. "Because I am, but that doesn't mean I'm in pain. Or that it's something that can be helped."

"Perhaps, but you could at least ask for something more."

"If I think I need it, I'll ask."

"Promise?"

"I promise." Frodo patted Merry's hand. "Really, Mer, I can take care of myself."

Merry smothered a smile.

Frodo grimaced. "Oh, stop. I meant they'll give me whatever I say I need."

"Do you always know what you need?" Merry asked shrewdly.

"Only sometimes," Frodo admitted. "Sometimes Rosie just does things, and I feel better afterward."

"Do you need anything right now?"

"I suppose I could use some of the stuff for my back."

Rosie came in with Frodo's supper in time to hear his statement. "I'll fetch that for you while you eat, Mr. Frodo. Is there anything else I can fetch you?"

"I could use some paper, a pen, and some ink," Merry said when Frodo remained silent, poking at his small bowl of stew with one lonely dumpling.

"All right, and you can use that tray to write on when he's done," Rosie said, her hands on her hips as she surveyed the room for anything else that needed attention. "Will you help him with the liniment for his back, or should I send Frodo-lad in?"

"I think I can manage it," Merry assured her with a smile. "But he can come in whenever you're done with him."

Rosie nodded. "Make sure you come and see me before you leave?"

"I wouldn't dream of leaving without saying farewell."

"No food for you?" Frodo inquired after Rosie left.

"I ate while you were wallowing in the bath," Merry said, sprawling in a most undignified fashion in the chair.

"Did you help your mum when she was ill?"

"No, not really. She didn't want me to neglect the Hall in trying to care for her. Several of the cousins helped her with things, especially near the end. I spent time with her every day, but it never felt like enough."

"But you were Master, there were plenty of things you needed to be minding. I think she was right," Frodo said around a mouthful of dumpling.

Merry snorted. "Of course you do."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing."

"Merry," Frodo said in warning.

"I'm sorry, I'm just tired and feeling guilty for neglecting her like that."

"If that's what she wanted you to be doing, how is that neglecting her?"

Merry shrugged and stared into the flickering fire. "I don't know." He rose and shifted the smoldering logs with the poker until small tongues of flame began to flicker again.

Frodo finished playing with his stew and sat back with what remained of his tea. "Will you feel guilty for doing the things I ask of you?"

"Of course not. But that's different," Merry said to the fire.

"How is that different?" Frodo pressed.

"Wait, you said 'things,' but you've only asked me to do one thing. What else is on your mind, Frodo?"

"I'll tell you in a bit. First answer my question: how is that different?" It was getting harder to form complete thoughts in order to speak; he'd definitely overdone it today.

"You're not my mother, for one," Merry replied with an evasive grin as he returned to his chair.

Frodo had to grin back. "No, I'm certainly not."

"I do hope you're not exhausting poor Mr. Frodo," Rosie scolded Merry as she returned with the liniment and writing supplies.

"He's the one talking to me," Merry said, pouting and trying to look innocent.

Rosie laughed. "Well, if he ever decides to stop, you ought not start up yourself," she teased as she handed him the things she'd brought. She went to the bed and kissed Frodo on the forehead. "Sleep well, Mr. Frodo. Frodo-lad will be about if you need anything." Rosie took his dishes and gave the tray to Merry to use, then left again.

"I suppose we ought to put this on you before you fall asleep on me," Merry said, holding up the liniment jar.

Frodo nodded wearily. "Yes, that would be best." While he worked on rolling himself onto his side, Merry set the tray and writing supplies on the floor by the chair and gingerly sat on the edge of the bed. Frodo rolled toward him and Merry reached over him to tug up the nightshirt. He daubed some of the strong-smelling cream onto Frodo's lower back at Frodo's direction, and carefully rubbed it in. As he pulled the nightshirt back down, Merry commented cheekily, "Nice diaper."

"It's not a diaper!" Frodo shot back before realizing that Merry was poking fun, and he pinched his cousin's leg.

"Ow! What was that for?" Merry yelped, rubbing his thigh.

"Making fun of your poor, sick, defenseless cousin," Frodo replied airily.

"With a pinch like that, you're not defenseless," Merry muttered darkly.

Frodo yawned and coughed, leaning against Merry more heavily, but didn't reply.

"What else did you want me to do?" Merry asked.

"Promise me something," Frodo said evasively.

"What?"

"Don't even think of cancelling your New Year party, no matter what happens with me between now and then. The fall of Sauron should be celebrated, even if they don't realize that's what it's about. Do you promise?"

"Yes, I promise." Merry wondered what on earth brought this up, but decided it wasn't worth asking.

"You do tell them, don't you? What it's all about?"

"Of course we do, Frodo. Sometimes we even mention you had something to do with it," he joked.

But Frodo didn't take it as a joke. "It's not about me," he insisted. "It's about . . . evil . . . overwhelming evil . . . everyone has a part . . ." he said, rambling on in the fashion Merry recognized as Frodo being exhausted but still feeling he has something to say. He'd been doing that since before he went to live with Bilbo -some things never change.

"Yes, I know, Fro," he soothed, rubbing Frodo's back.

Frodo sighed and coughed again. "I'd better roll back over. I'll hurt worse later if I sleep like this."

Merry helped him roll onto his back (Merry's weight on the bed made it impossible for Frodo to do it himself, as much as he might have liked to), but when Merry tried to pull away, Frodo held on to him.

"A hug before you go?" he asked plaintively.

Merry had no objection, and gingerly hugged his cousin's frail frame. "I'm not leaving just yet."

"I know, but I'll be asleep soon, and I don't know if . . . when I'll see you again." He sounded inexpressibly sad.

"I'll be back to visit after my little party," Merry found himself saying, only deciding on it at that very moment.

"Oh. All right, then. And in the meantime I'll have Mr. Fuzzy," Frodo said, humor creeping back into his voice.

"Yes, in the meantime you'll have Mr. Fuzzy," Merry agreed, grinning at him. Frodo smiled hesitantly, holding onto Merry's hand. "Go on to sleep, Frodo dear," Merry urged, squeezing his hand.

Frodo squeezed back, closed his eyes again, and his face relaxed. His hand soon grew limp in Merry's, and he slept, his breathing shallow but even.

Merry slipped off the bed carefully, and returned to the chair, watching Frodo meditatively before turning his attention to the blank sheets of paper he needed to fill.

Rosie looked up from her needlework as Merry entered the sitting room, carrying his saddlebag. "I'm going to go back to the Ivy Bush now," he said.

Rosie nodded, tucking her work into the basket beside her chair. "Mr. Frodo asleep, then?"

"He's been asleep nearly an hour," Merry confirmed. "Frodo-lad's in with him." He hesitated, then continued, "I have a favor to ask."

"Go on."

"I told him I'll be back to visit after the party, but would you write if . . . if it looks like he won't make it that long?"

"I would have even if you hadn't asked," Rosie responded.

Merry nodded and heaved a sigh of relief. "Thank you."

Rosie stood and hugged him. "Don't you worry 'bout a thing. We're doing our best to care for him."

Merry hugged her back. "I know you are. You should receive a crate from my healer by the end of next week. I hope it will help."

"I'm sure it will. Now, get on with you, or you'll be falling off your poor pony tomorrow on the way home."

"I'll have you know I've perfected the art of sleeping while riding," Merry said with a laugh. "It comes in handy when you live on the other side of the Shire from many of your friends."


	13. Memories

Wordcount: 4,305 for this part

Chapter Summary: Frodo finishes telling his story, and the dreaded March anniversary arrives.

* * *

Frodo's voice faltered and he paused to gather his wits and catch his breath. It was becoming so very difficult to speak more than a few words without stopping for air, but whether he'd simply gotten that much worse, or it was the effect of the anxiety of telling this part of the tale, of telling enough to reach a reasonable stopping-place, of tomorrow, he wasn't sure. He started talking again before he could dwell on this, and was able to get all the way to Sam carrying him up the Mountain before he had to cough.

"Mr. Frodo? Do you want me to finish?" Sam asked worriedly, standing up and starting toward Frodo's chair.

"No, no, I can keep going," Frodo said, waving him away. He made sure to wipe his mouth carefully before continuing the story; it wouldn't do to frighten the young ones.

At last he brought them to him and Sam fleeing the Crack of Doom and their refuge on an ashen hill, finally succumbing to the evil vapors of the Mountain. Halting there, Frodo felt nearly like he was back at the Mountain, growing faint as he strained to breathe. Fourteen pairs of wide eyes were fixed on him, as if urging him to continue.

When he didn't resume, Ruby asked, "But how did you get off the Mountain? You're here now, so you got off somehow."

Murmurs of agreement were heard from the rest of his young hearers. This time Sam stepped in. "Eagles. Mr. Gandalf brought eagles to find us, and they took us out of the evil land. Strider healed us, and afterward we stayed in the big city of Men for a while, we came back to the Shire. Isn't that right, Mr. Frodo?"

Frodo smiled faintly. "Quite right, Sam. You're leaving out a great deal, but that will do for now."

Several voices piped up at once asking questions -Tom's voice was the loudest as he asked where Strider had been all that time- but Sam hushed them. "You can read the rest in the Red Book once your Mum and I think you're ready. Go on and help put tea out, now."

Rosie made her way through the press of bodies leaving the room to Frodo's side, his breathing difficulty during the story greatly worrying her. His appearance did nothing to allay her concern, his pallor and the visible sweat standing on his face giving her cause to think the worry was warranted. There was one thing, at least, that she could try to remedy. "Mr. Frodo, try to take deeper breaths," she coaxed. "You're a-goin' to make yourself faint, breathin' so fast-like."

He didn't speak, but he seemed to regain a bit of control long enough to take a few good breaths before launching into coughing. Frodo-lad held him when the coughing made him curl forward in agony, while Rosie readied a handkerchief to dab his face afterward. Sam watched uneasily, uncertain what he ought to do.

When Frodo stopped jerking with the force of his coughs -though he still trembled- Rosie patted his face dry and asked gently, "Can you make it over to the bed, or will you need help?"

"Some help would be wise, I think."

"Sam, would you? Frodo-lad, go make sure your brothers and sisters are behaving themselves," Rosie directed. "You overdid it today, I think, Mr. Frodo."

"But I finished it," Frodo said serenely. "That was all I wanted."

"I know that," Rosie replied as Sam carried Frodo to the bed. "But it ain't worth abusing yourself so."

"I disagree," Frodo contradicted once he had been put down. "They're still leaving tonight, yes? Today was the last opportunity."

"Aye, Marigold's coming for dinner and taking them with her after," Rosie confirmed. "But it's all in that book! You don't have to make yourself more ill for them to know."

"The story has been in the book for many years," Frodo commented with a glance toward Sam, who flushed and looked away.

Rosie sighed. "That's true. We've not done our part there."

"Now you'll just have to fill in what I left out." Frodo shifted against his pillows. "Are you telling them before they go, or do they only know that I'm ill?"

"You're just ill," Rosie replied, slightly rearranging the pillows until Frodo was settled. "I'll let them come in one at a time afore they go if they want to say farewell."

Frodo nodded. "All right. Thank Marigold for me."

"I shall."

Frodo closed his eyes and let himself drift, though he was aware of a brief whispered conversation between Rosie and Sam, then one of them left while the other sat in the chair he'd vacated. The hand that grasped his was Sam's, by the calluses.

"Is there anything you need?"

"Just rest," Frodo responded with effort.

The chair rustled and creaked as Sam fidgeted. "I'm sorry you had to do that."

"What?"

"Tell the story. I should've done it, long ago."

Frodo squeezed his hand. "'s all right," he mumbled. "Let me feel useful, for a while."

There was more Sam wanted to ask, to say, but Frodo was obviously too tired for more conversation. There would be time enough later. He could wait.

Sam was still sitting there when Rosie roused Frodo for dinner, but must have left right after, for he was gone by the time Frodo was fully awake. This confused him until he realized that Marigold had likely arrived, and naturally Sam would want to be with his sister for the meal. Something else odd about the situation niggled at the back of his mind, but he couldn't figure out what it was at first, so he contemplated his dinner.

It wasn't a bad-looking dinner; in fact, far from it. He was quite fond of the thick noodles with broth and bits of chicken, the cooked, sliced carrots looked like they always did, and the roll smelled nice and yeasty. The trouble was that he wasn't particularly hungry. Even more so than usual, really, since Frodo was well aware that not being hungry was normal with him these days. But Rosie was eyeing him, and he knew that she would say something if he didn't start eating soon. She was nicer than Sam about it, but he really didn't want to be nagged.

Frodo sighed, and stabbed a few carrots with the fork. Rosie was less likely to comment about how little he'd eaten if he made a fair attempt at the vegetables. And the advantage to canned carrots was that one hardly had to do anything -between the canning and the cooking, they were soft enough to make chewing superfluous. Proud of himself for thinking of the word 'superfluous', Frodo felt brave enough to try some noodles. They were good -like always- but he felt like they formed a giant ball in his throat and he swallowed with difficulty. He switched back and forth between a few carrots and a few noodles to figure out if the trouble was the noodles or his throat, and concluded it was a little of both. But mostly that he wasn't hungry, and it is difficult to make oneself eat if one is not hungry.

He meditatively stabbed another carrot, and realized what was odd about the whole situation. "Didn't Tom come with Marigold?" he inquired. If Tom had come, then both Rosie and Sam should be eating with their siblings, but instead Rosie was with him. It didn't make sense.

"Nay. Several of the cows are near to calving, so he wanted to stay and keep an eye on them," Rosie replied.

"Ah." So that explained it. He nibbled at the roll, but that, too, had the effect of feeling like it was getting stuck in his throat. He finished the carrots instead, along with the tea.

"Is that all you're going to have?" Rosie asked, in the tone of voice that meant she was only asking, and not trying to induce him to eat more.

"Yes. I'm not very hungry. And it feels like it's sticking in my throat."

"Would you like something in particular for supper? What will go down all right?"

"I'm not sure," Frodo said, frowning. "Something drinkable would probably go down all right."

"I think I've still got some of that potato soup," Rosie suggested.

"That should be fine," Frodo replied. He yawned. "Will the children be in soon to say good-bye? I'm afraid I'm going to fall asleep on them."

"I'll have them start coming by, then," Rosie said, rising and taking his tray.

Merry, Pippin, and Hamfast were the first to appear; they each awkwardly hugged him and beat a hasty retreat, obviously uncomfortable with the whole idea of saying farewell to Uncle Frodo. Daisy and Primrose were next, each of them hugging him and saying good-bye shyly. Bilbo, Ruby, and Robin trooped in after their sisters, and spent a little longer in the hugging and well-wishes, telling him excitedly of the things they would get to do at the farm during their visit. After they left, young Tom hesitated in the doorway for a moment, then hurried to the bed and, flinging himself onto the bed, he clung to Frodo anxiously. "Ma's not saying when we're to come home," he said, looking up at Frodo with tears in his eyes. "When will I see you again, Uncle Frodo?"

Frodo patted the lad's back and had to admit, "I don't know, Tom."

"Will you get better while we're gone? Is that why we're going?" he persisted.

Frodo hesitated before answering. "We'll have to see," he finally said lamely.

Tom burst into tears and buried his face in Frodo's nightshirt, seeming to understand by Frodo's answer that he may not get to see Uncle Frodo again. Frodo stroked the lad's unruly blond curls and tried not to weep himself. At length Rosie came to retrieve Tom, as the rest were ready to go and Marigold had the wagon waiting at the gate.

"You should go, Tom," Frodo gently urged him.

Tom hugged him tighter. "Good-bye, Uncle Frodo," he whispered, then let go and climbed down from the bed. He stood at the bedside a moment, staring at Frodo as if fixing him in his memory, then turned and trudged toward his mother. Rosie steered him by the shoulder out of the room and toward where his coat hung on its peg by the front door. With a nod to Frodo, she closed his door.

Frodo listened to the sounds of the departure in the hall, the chattering voices and the thump of the wardrobe door gradually quieting. The front door closed with a decisive click, and they were gone. Frodo's heart felt nigh to breaking as he thought of Tom's tearful farewell, and he let his own tears fall. It had been such a joy to see all of Sam and Rosie's many children, to tell them stories and enjoy their very presence. But now they had gone, just as he would soon leave those that were still here.

He was unaware of having fallen asleep, but his next conscious moment was hearing Frodo-lad coming to check on him and feeling the dried tears on his cheeks. Frodo was subdued during his bath; Frodo-lad followed his lead and did not attempt to start a conversation, though he found himself humming on several occasions and tried to stop himself as soon as he was aware of it. The third time the humming started of its own accord, Frodo chuckled. "What are you thinking about, lad?"

"Nothing," Frodo-lad hastened to reply, flushing in embarrassment.

Frodo quirked a smile. "If it's got you happy enough to be humming, it must be a lass," he guessed. Frodo-lad flushed clear to the tips of his ears, and Frodo grinned. "Come, tell me of your pretty lass," he encouraged.

Frodo-lad hesitated, but with some additional prodding, he confessed he had an eye on one of his cousins, but she didn't seem to think much of him at all. Frodo nodded periodically as Frodo-lad explained. "Ask your Uncle Merry about his courtship of Aunt Estella," he said simply when Frodo-lad finished. "I think you'll find he can give you a few pointers."

Frodo-lad received this advice with enthusiasm, and whistled for the rest of the time he was assisting Frodo in the bathing room. Rosie was in the bedroom when they returned, just finishing up with setting an oilcloth under the flannel. "Where did that come from?" Frodo asked as Frodo-lad set him in bed and he and Rosie efficiently arranged his pillows and bedcovers.

"We've had them a while, since Robin had troubles with wettin' the bed when he was around five or six," Rosie answered.

She didn't say why it had been added to his bed, but Frodo knew and appreciated the forethought. "I see," he said, meeting her eyes and nodding slightly.

Rosie patted his shoulder. "I have your soup right here," she said, retrieving the tray from its perch on the linen chest. "If you are wanting anything else, have Frodo-lad give a holler."

Frodo managed the soup all right, and for all that he insisted he wasn't hungry, he felt a bit better for having been able to finish it. After he'd also finished his tea and shuffled to his privy seat and back again, he was ready to sleep. Frodo-lad let him get into bed on his own, then was about to arrange the pillows when Frodo said, "I think I want to try my side. My back aches something terrible." Frodo-lad had rubbed the liniment on his back after the bath, but it wasn't enough.

Frodo-lad helped him roll over and took a few pillows out from under his head to make the position more comfortable. A couple of pillows between his legs to prevent more sores (he was doing quite well enough collecting them as it was), one behind his back to keep him from shifting, and one in front of him to lay his top arm on, and Frodo felt a bit more at ease. "That's better, thank you."

"Good." Frodo-lad pulled the quilts over him and was about to sit down when Frodo spoke again.

"Would you read to me? The last chapter of the Book?"

"Of course." Frodo-lad fetched the Book and opened it, easily finding what was apparently Frodo's favorite chapter. "The whole thing?"

"Please."

Frodo-lad didn't get far before Frodo interrupted. "When will Fatty be by again, do you know?"

"He comes about every fourth day," he said thoughtfully as he calculated in his head. "He was here two days ago, so tomorrow or the day after, most like."

"Thank you." When Frodo didn't say anything more, Frodo-lad resumed reading. He always felt a little odd, reading about his father in this manner; it seemed strange to think about what his father had been like before marrying and having his own family. But when he reached the part about his grandfather finding Frodo ill on March the thirteenth, he stopped abruptly. He had read it how many times before, but only now realized fully the import of these words. "Tomorrow is the thirteenth."

Frodo nodded. "It is. Didn't your mother tell you that's why your siblings were taken to the farm today?"

Frodo-lad shook his head numbly. "No, or at least, not plain-like."

"We aren't sure what will happen -if anything- so to be safe they are out from underfoot."

"If only they'd always be out from underfoot," Frodo-lad muttered under his breath.

Frodo chuckled and coughed. "Please, keep going."

Frodo-lad obediently returned to reading. There were no interruptions now. Frodo closed his eyes and listened, grateful that lying on his side meant it would be difficult for Frodo-lad to tell he was weeping. When Frodo-lad finished, Frodo seemed to be asleep, so he let him be and spent a good long while in contemplation.

* * *

"Mum? Mum, he's had a sweating fit again."

Rosie was sitting up and turning to rouse Sam before her eyes were fully open.

"Should I wake Rose and Fro?" Goldi asked.

"Is Mr. Frodo awake?" Rosie inquired in turn.

"Nay."

"Go back right now and sit with him, then. I'll wake your sister," Rosie directed.

Goldi arrived back in Frodo's room to find him apparently awake and murmuring to himself as he clutched the pillow under his arm. She cautiously approached the bed, but he seemed to shrink away as he saw her draw near, so she stopped near the end of the bed and watched, listening carefully. Her mother and sister arrived minutes later, still in the midst of shrugging on dressing gowns and tying back uncombed hair.

"What's he saying?" Rosie asked as she entered.

"I can't tell, and he didn't want me to get near."

"Stand back a bit, then." Rosie took her place at the food of the bed, in Frodo's line of sight. "Mr. Frodo? It's Rosie," she said, slowly advancing along his side of the bed.

"Rosie," Frodo repeated sluggishly. "Sam?"

"Sam will be coming in a few minutes," Rosie soothed, now close enough to lay her hand atop his. "How are you?"

"I'm . . . I . . . " Frodo found, to his frustration, that his efforts to keep his mind in the present was making it difficult to find the proper words. He had to return to murmuring to himself for a moment, to remind himself that the memories of pain and orcs and terror weren't real.

"Mr. Frodo?"

Rosie's gentle voice helped bring him back to reality, and he blurted, "I need to go."

"Go?" Rosie repeated, then understood. "Goldi, run and get your da."

"Need . . . to . . . go . . ." Frodo repeated to himself, clinging to this awareness of his physical surroundings.

His audience interpreted the repetition as an expression of urgency (and perhaps it was, albeit unintentional) and exchanged a worried look. "Where is your father?" Rosie asked in annoyance, knowing Rose-lass couldn't answer.

"I can move him, Mum," Rose-lass offered as she finished pulling a new set of bedding from the chest.

Rosie hesitated, but agreed, and they helped Frodo sit up and Rose-lass lifted him just as Sam finally arrived. He helped her shift Frodo's clothing before settling him down, and took over helping him so she could do her mother's bidding.

"Sam," Frodo said with a sigh, leaning heavily against him.

"I'm here, Mr. Frodo," Sam soothed. "What do you say we take this damp nightshirt off you?"

Not waiting for an answer, he started to pull it up and reached for Frodo's arm to ease it out of the sleeve. Frodo whimpered and tried to pull away, staring wide-eyed at Sam. "No . . . please . . . " Frodo whispered, his eyes continually fixed on Sam.

Rosie touched Sam on the shoulder and spoke close to his ear. "Weren't he naked in that tower?" Sam nodded once. "It might not be best to undress him, then. We can give 'im a sponge bath instead."

"Do you really think that's necessary?"

Rosie remained silent a moment. "What do you think?"

Sam looked at Frodo with a critical gaze; he'd begun murmuring to himself again and looked frightened, his eyes darting to and fro with the movements of Rose-lass and Goldilocks as they changed the bedlinens. "Aye, 'tis necessary," Sam admitted.

"If you'll get him sorted here, I'll have the lasses help me get the rest ready."

It took a while for Sam to get Frodo sorted, as anytime he tried to help Frodo clean himself, Frodo would do all he could to fight off the "attack." At length Sam realized that Frodo was calmer if he talked to him, so he maintained a constant stream of narrative about what he was doing. By the time Sam was ready to move Frodo, Rosie and the lasses had laid out the damp bedding on the floor in front of the fire on which to bathe him.

Sam still wasn't entirely sure how Rosie planned to manage it, so he let her take the lead. Once he'd gotten Frodo lying down in front of the fire, Rosie covered Frodo with a blanket, then knelt and had him look at her. "Mr. Frodo, we're going to get you a bit cleaner here, all right?"

Frodo nodded hesitantly, but when Rosie uncovered one of his legs, he whimpered. Sam sat next to him and held his hand, remaining there, softly talking to him for reassurance while Rosie worked. Going from bottom to top, one side then the other, Rosie was able to bathe most of Frodo's skin and inch off the damp nightshirt and, with Sam's help, remove it.

"Almost done, Mr. Frodo," Rosie told him cheerily as she tugged the new shirt over his head.

"It's not quite orc fashion," Frodo said wryly to Sam, who was helping feed his arm into the sleeve.

"No, no it's just hobbit-style," Sam replied after an awkward moment.

Frodo wheezed a bit, his shoulders shaking. Sam sat him more upright in case he needed to cough, but Frodo shook his head. Rosie, watching them both, said with amusement, "He's laughing, Sam. He was making a joke."

Frodo nodded, smiling slightly. "Sorry, Sam." he said apologetically.

Sam looked perplexed, not sure he liked the idea of joking about that, but if Frodo was the one doing it, he supposed that made it all right.

"Mr. Frodo, you're set," Rosie said. Sam took this as his cue and helped Frodo back into bed. Rosie helped him make Frodo comfortable, then she said, "Don't go to sleep just yet, Mr. Frodo. We're gonna go ahead and give you your tea and a bit of breakfast."

"All right," Frood replied with a sigh. "I'll try."

"That's all I ask," Rosie assured him, squeezing his hand and leaving him and Sam alone to check on things in the kitchen.

Neither spoke, and seeing that Sam wasn't inclined to talk, Frodo leaned over and reached for Mr. Fuzzy, managing to snag him off the table without falling over. Sam watched curiously, not having noticed the stuffed bear before. "Where did that come from?"

"Merry brought it. I gave it to Stella long ago . . . she thought it would comfort me," Frodo replied slowly, fighting his memories for every single word.

Rosie returned bearing the dreaded tray. "Will you need help, dear?"

Frodo stuck the spoon into the porridge to judge its thickness. "No, thank you," he said. "I need to do it."

"Do you want someone to sit with you?"

"Doesn't matter," Frodo said wearily. It was growing difficult to hold back the insistent memories the longer he was awake, and having someone else there wouldn't change that.

Rosie touched his cheek briefly. "All right. I need Sam for a few minutes, but we'll check on you."

Frodo nodded and took a small bite of porridge to appease her before she left. She and Sam collected the bedding from the floor and left him to himself. Frodo closed his eyes and tried to relax, stroking Mr. Fuzzy to give himself something innocuous to focus upon. Then he tried to eat and drink, centering his efforts on the tea, as failing to drink that would just make things worse. He choked it all down, suppressing the inevitable recollection of the orc draught, and managed a little more porridge before giving up and closing his eyes again.

When Rosie peered in, he was clutching that bear and murmuring again, evidently finished with his breakfast. She went to fetch the tray, and found she could understand his words when she drew closer -a repetition of their names, his cousins and their families, and some other things associated with the Shire, like Bag End. Occasionally he would wander and start referring to his journey, reacting to his memory and reminding himself: no orcs, no tower, no whip . . . Sam came to find her when she didn't return, and found her listening carefully to Frodo. When she saw him come in, she said, "Bless his heart, he's trying to remind himself where he is and that the memories aren't real."

Frodo heard her voice and opened his eyes to look at them, not seeming to recognize them at first. "Mr. Frodo?" Sam said hesitantly.

"All is dark and empty," Frodo said hollowly, then contradicted himself, "No, not all." He frowned and sighed unhappily. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry for what, dear?" Rosie asked kindly, adjusting his pillows.

"The memories are . . . stronger than I am."

He sounded so despondent that Rosie's heart ached for him. "Don't go a-worryin' about that. We'll help you."

Frodo nodded, weariness evident in his face. Sam watched Rosie soothe Frodo and felt awkward; he used to be able to comfort Frodo, but now he had no idea what was needed or when, and knew he was less useful for it. He shifted his weight and turned to leave, but Frodo spoke. "Please, Sam, don't leave."

"Yes, you ought to sit with him," Rosie encouraged.

Sam shrugged and remained in the room, pressing a kiss to Rosie's forehead before going to sit in the chair on the other side of the bed. When Rosie had left, Frodo looked at Sam earnestly.

"I don't know what to do for you," Sam confessed.

"Nothing for now," Frodo said with a hint of a smile. "Later . . . you will know. You always have."

Sam had to think about this, and Frodo fell asleep while he did.

Rosie came to spell him so he could get dressed; by the time he returned, Frodo had become restless and whimpered as he tossed and turned. Sam hurried to the bed, held one of Frodo's hands, and set his other hand on Frodo's chest to settle him. "Shh, Mr. Frodo, it's all right." To Sam's satisfaction, Frodo calmed down at his touch.


	14. Anniversary

Wordcount: 3,180 for this part

A/N: The medical-type stuff in this fic has not been run by those who know more about such things than I do, so no guarantees that it is realistic despite the research I did.

Warning: We have progressed to the point in which Frodo's death is openly discussed. Also, there are bodily functions and other such things present (but you could probably guess that).

Chapter Summary: Frodo endures the March anniversary with the help and comfort of Sam and his family.

* * *

Frodo-lad was startled from sleep by an unearthly wailing, and in wondering what was going on, he realized he'd slept late. He dressed hurriedly, hopping on one foot as he pulled on his trousers and buttoning his shirt haphazardly as he dashed from his bedroom. He stopped by the kitchen to ask his sisters what was going on. They both giggled at his shirt-buttoning attempt, and Rose-lass told him about Mr. Frodo's troubles that morning as she rebuttoned his shirt for him. By that point all was quiet, so Frodo-lad ate a bit to tide him over until second breakfast, then went to see if his help was needed.

His mother was standing in the doorway; over her shoulder he could just barely see his father on the floor, holding Mr. Frodo and rocking him back and forth. "What happened?"

"He startled somehow, and tried to get away," Rosie whispered. "We're waiting until he's calmer to see if he hurt hisself."

"Do you need me?"

"We might. Sam, should I try now?"

Sam nodded and Rosie slowly approached, with Frodo-lad trailing her by several steps, watching curiously. Frodo had his face buried in Sam's shoulder and trembled in his arms, but didn't react when Rosie touched him to check his legs.

"Check his ankles, it looked like he may have twisted one."

"Aye, the right one's a bit swollen," Rosie answered after Frodo tensed and tried to pull away when she touched it. "Lad, go tell your sisters to put together an ice pack, then come right back," she instructed Frodo-lad.

He obeyed, and returned quickly. Rosie had him help Frodo stand and support him there so Sam could get up from the floor. After they had Frodo settled in bed with an ice pack on his ankle, Frodo-lad hovered near the bedroom, keeping his father company and helping where he could. Just before lunch he sat with Frodo while Sam stepped out for a few minutes; Frodo had been quiet and calm for a while, so it seemed a prudent time for Sam to have a breather.

Shortly after Sam left, Frodo opened his eyes and looked around warily. His eyes fixed on Frodo-lad and his face clouded with confusion "Sam? How are you . . .? Why aren't I . . .?"

"Mr. Frodo? Do you want me to fetch my da?" Frodo-lad ventured, confused as well.

Frodo shook his head slightly and his expression cleared. "Frodo-lad. You look so much like your father did at that age."

Frodo-lad had heard that before, so all he could do was nod. "Did you want me to get Da?"

"No, no, I don't need to trouble him." Frodo had to cough then, but not for long. He sighed afterward, and reluctantly accepted some water from Frodo-lad. He was asleep again almost immediately.

Frodo-lad puzzled for a while over what Mr. Frodo had been trying to say, but gave it up as a bad job. Mr. Frodo could be a tough nut to crack on a normal day, much less while confused over where and when he was.

.

.

In the afternoon, Frodo grew restive and Sam's touch and voice no longer reached him as it had. Rosie noted that his fever seemed worse, but the usual remedies were impossible with his restlessness and aversion to touch. So they could only watch and intervene when Frodo would allow it.

He would often cry out, sometimes moaning, sometimes pleading. "Please . . . stop . . . " "Elf? I don't know what you're talking about . . ." "No, please . . ." It chilled the blood, and Frodo-lad felt a knot growing in his stomach. The book hadn't done his suffering justice, not by a long road.

When he asked his da about it, his da nodded and said, "Aye, he put in as little of his own pains as he could and still have the story make sense." Frodo-lad had even more respect for his namesake after that.

From time to time Frodo's pleas would give way to cowering and panting in fear, and soon enough the panting was too much for his weakened lungs and he coughed roughly. Sam and Frodo-lad would help him sit -if allowed to draw near at all- for easier breathing, but there were times when he curled into himself and coughed so hard Frodo-lad feared he would choke. One time, instead of choking, he retched, coughing all the while, and Sam hauled him upright so he wouldn't choke or breathe in what he'd just brought up. Frodo weakly struggled against his grasp but had too many drains on his strength and attention that he couldn't maintain the effort.

Rosie heard the coughing and came to help; since Sam seemed to have Frodo himself under control, she attended to cleaning up the mess, shaking her head and clucking her tongue.

Sam had trouble keeping Frodo calm while Rosie cleaned up, and when they tried to remove his soiled nightshirt, Frodo panicked, clinging to Sam. "No, no . . . please . . . don't do this . . . Sam! Don't let them do it . . . Sam . . . Please . . ." Yet when they gave up and merely tried to persuade him to lie back down, Frodo still clung to Sam in desperation, his grip stronger than what would seem possible given his physical condition.

Then Sam had an idea. "Lad, fetch the phial from the locked chest. It may calm him down some."

It took Frodo-lad longer than he would have liked to find the key, find the right chest, get it open, and dig out the desired item. The glass felt cold and cheerless in his palm, but he trusted his Da. If he said it might help, then it might help. Frodo-lad handed the phial to his da with a sense of triumph, hoping and trusting that this would be the key to making Mr. Frodo feel better.

Sam, too, resolutely hoped that the Elf magic could do some good. He offered Galadriel's phial to Frodo, who picked it up and stared at it as if he'd never seen it before, shaking it and turning it upside-down as if expecting it to do something. Slowly, a light grew inside it, and Frodo gasped in wonder as he remembered. "When all other lights go out," he murmured to himself.

Frodo was pleased to see that the phial was still whole -he hadn't managed to smash it in his madness, then- but found it didn't confer the same peace that he thought he remembered. There was some light, yes, but the virtue must have waned with the departure of Galadriel over the Sea. Frodo sighed wistfully and wondered if Galadriel -or Elrond or even Gandalf- ever thought about him and the rest of those they'd left behind. "Are there many Elves left in Middle-Earth?"

"Not many, I reckon," Sam replied, relieved that Frodo had reacted to the phial.

"Legolas?"

"Last I heard he's still around."

Frodo fell silent again. Sam gently pried Frodo's hand off the front of his shirt and urged him to lie back. As Frodo followed Sam's urging, he groaned, "Oh, it hurts."

"Where does it hurt, Mr. Frodo?" Sam asked anxiously, clasping Frodo's free hand.

"Everywhere," he replied plaintively.

"We'll have your next bit of tea ready soon," Rosie told him, rearranging the pillows under his knees and ankles that had been dislodged in his thrashing.

"Thank you, but . . . I don't think it will help." He clenched his hand around the phial, then handed it back to Sam. "It's not the same anymore."

Sam accepted it, disappointed but resigned. He would find something to help Frodo, he just knew it.

Rosie focused for now on Frodo's physical comfort. "What hurts you the most?"

Frodo grimaced. "I don't even know." He closed his eyes and focused on breathing.

"Would it help to use the sedative?" Sam asked suddenly.

"What?" Rosie wasn't sure what he had in mind.

"No," Frodo said shortly. "Just because . . . I'm not awake . . . doesn't mean . . . I can't feel pain."

"I had to ask," Sam said defensively.

"No, no . . . I appreciate the thought. It just wouldn't help," Frodo said faintly.

Rosie fetched the tea and helped Frodo drink; Frodo tried to take the cup from her, but she insisted on holding it and he decided she was right in assuming he couldn't do it without making a mess. He could feel his hands trembling.

Frodo drifted out of awareness after that and was fairly quiet for the rest of the day, periodically twitching or groaning, but without struggling or crying out as he'd done earlier in the day. Sam took this to mean his memories weren't troubling him as much, but Rosie was fairly certain he lacked those reactions because he lacked the strength to display them.

Frodo-lad thought it was almost eerie to see Mr. Frodo so still, after everything earlier. When Mr. Frodo stayed quiet through suppertime, Frodo-lad encouraged his parents to go to bed -it had been a long day for them, and they both looked so weary. "Go on, I'll be fine. I'll send Goldi for you if anything happens," he promised, and this was convincing enough that they assented.

"Try to keep him comfortable, lad," Rosie instructed. "If he keeps sweatin' so, pat his face with a handkerchief. A dry one, not a wet one, or he might feel chilled, and that wouldn't do."

"Yes, Mum. And if he wakes up normal-like, I'll try to get him to drink something, but if he wakes and is upset, I'll send Goldi for Da. I know," he said, repeating instructions from earlier with amused exasperation.

Rosie patted his cheek. "Good lad. You have been a great help, you know. I appreciate it, and I know Mr. Frodo does, too."

Frodo-lad settled down for his watch with a mug of ale and the Red Book -while there were many books strewn about the smial that could hold his interest, he found this was the only one that drew him of late. He found himself turning to the passage about the spider, then had to skip a ways to the bit about the tower, his eyes periodically drawn to the haggard hobbit on the bed.

After that he flipped pages for a while until he landed on the last chapter. He started to skim, but after a while found himself reading aloud softly, perhaps subconsciously trying to soothe Mr. Frodo with the words he often asked to hear. Frodo-lad couldn't tell if Mr. Frodo heard him or if it was doing any good if he did, but he read to the very end anyhow.

He was finishing the chapter for the third time when Goldi showed up. "You're early," Frodo-lad said, glancing at the clock on the mantel to confirm his feeling that it wasn't late enough for her to take over watching Mr. Frodo.

Goldi shrugged. "I was done with all that needed doing, so I thought to come see what you was up to."

"Were. You were up to," Frodo-lad corrected automatically. Talking to Mr. Frodo had made him painfully aware of the difference between the way his family talked and the way Mr. Frodo did, and it was Mr. Frodo's way that was in books, so that must be the right way.

"Was," Goldi shot back, then drew closer to the bed. "How long has he been doing that?"

Frodo-lad studied Mr. Frodo, but couldn't tell what she was talking about. "Doing what?"

"Making those little gasps. He must be in a terrible lot o' pain, to be doing that."

"I don't know, I hadn't noticed," he admitted, wondering if he should own up to having been reading aloud to an unaware audience the whole time. "He did say earlier that he was hurting something fierce, but he couldn't say exactly where, so Ma couldn't help him."

"Maybe he's getting stiff from being abed," Goldi speculated. She sat on the bed, picked up one of Mr. Frodo's arms, and started moving it about, bending and straightening the elbow, moving the wrist in all directions, and playing with each finger before rubbing the entire length of the arm.

"What-? Where did you learn that?" Frodo-lad demanded.

"I read about it in one of them books we got from that Elf place. Rivendale?"

"Rivendell. But when do you read?" It always appeared to him that the lasses were as busy as he usually was in the garden, and in evenings there was always mending, so where she found the time was a puzzle.

She nodded her head toward Mr. Frodo. "It's mighty boring to watch a hobbit sleep, and even with you clumsy lot there ain't enough mending to keep a mind occupied. I been reading a fair bit since Mr. Frodo's been ill, so I figured as I'd read things that might help sometime." She gently set the first arm down and picked up the other. "I read that one, too," she added, gesturing toward the Red Book on the chair.

"What did you think?" Elanor was the only other one he'd known had read it, but she was so far away and he'd never thought to write and ask about her impressions.

Goldi clucked her tongue and shook her head. "It's a wonder any of them lived," she said softly. "Folk haven't a clue, and Da don't seem of a mind to tell them. A fair shame, that." She fell silent as she kneaded Mr. Frodo's damaged hand. "We need to get Roz to read it. She don't believe me when I tell her that spider weren't the only horrible beastie. And she insists no person in their right mind, Man or otherwise, would even think of settin' fire to hisself. I try to tell her he weren't in his right mind and that's the whole point, but she don't listen. She only believes the parts Mr. Frodo talked about, as it was Mr. Frodo that said it. She might listen to you, though -you're the eldest now."

"I doubt it, but I'll try to convince her to read it," Frodo-lad said. Their sister Rose was a formidable force, but she usually listened to him. Didn't always agree or do what he said, but at least she listened.

Goldi set the second arm down. "Watch his face and tell me if I'm hurtin' him," she instructed as she uncovered Frodo's left leg and started working her way from foot to ankle to knee. Frodo-lad would tell her where Mr. Frodo started reacting, and she would work within the acceptable range. He also had to tell her about Mr. Frodo's twisted ankle, which she gently touched but chose to refrain from actually moving it.

By the time she was finished handling the second leg, Mr. Frodo was no longer making the little gasps that she'd said meant he was in pain. "Sometimes you're a marvel, Goldi," Frodo-lad said.

"Only sometimes?" she asked with a smirk. "Help me turn him on his side."

"What for?"

"His back needs rubbing too, most like. And it ain't good for sick folk to always lie the same way."

"Did you read that in that book, too? What kind of book is this, anyhow?" Frodo-lad started pulling a few pillows out from behind Mr. Frodo's head.

"Aye, I read it in the book. The title was something about the 'seriously ill, wounded, and dying' or somesuch like that." She pulled back the covers and they carefully rolled Mr. Frodo onto his side. With a bit of discussion and negotiation, they had him rolled far enough over that she could get to his back easily but he could still breathe.

As Goldi began by rubbing Mr. Frodo's shoulders, Frodo-lad finally hit on something that bothered him. "If the book was from Rivendell, why was it in Westron? Unless you're going to tell me you can read Elvish now, too."

Goldi snorted. "'Twas in Westron, right enough. But how should I know why? It wasn't me as wrote it!"

"I know, but why would an Elf have a book in Westron?"

"It probably wasn't written by Elves or for Elves." Mr. Frodo's voice startled them both, and Goldi snatched her hands away from his back. "Oh, please don't stop!"

While Goldi hesitantly resumed, Frodo-lad put his head down by Mr. Frodo's. "What do you mean?"

"Elves don't get sick or die like us mortals," Mr. Frodo explained. "The book was most likely written . . . by healers in Minas Tirith, if it was in Westron." He took a deep breath and continued, "Elrond was a great collector of books of healing, both Elvish and otherwise. He . . . probably used them to teach Aragorn, as well."

"Oh." Frodo-lad considered this. "I suppose that makes sense. But how long have you been awake?"

"I don't know. A few minutes, maybe."

"I'm supposed to have you drink some water if you wake, but I guess it can wait until Goldi's done with you. Is she hurting you?"

"Oh, no, it feels nice."

Goldi beamed. When she got down to his lower back, she rubbed more gently and quite carefully; she only made him hiss in pain twice, so she considered her efforts to be a reasonable success. Mr. Frodo was nearly asleep after she'd finished, but they insisted that he take a bit of water before they would let him sleep again.

Frodo-lad noticed that he didn't try to dissuade them the same way that he would try with Mum and Da; that bit of knowledge might be useful later, so he made note of it. Goldi insisted that they have Mr. Frodo sleep on his side for now, especially since Mr. Frodo didn't disagree, so Frodo-lad showed her where the placed the pillows to keep him from falling over and to keep his skin from rubbing together and causing more sores.

Mr. Frodo was asleep -or unconscious, who could say?- when they'd finished fussing with pillows and blankets and making sure everything was lying flat and smooth. By then it was also far past the time Frodo-lad ordinarily went to bed, but he was somewhat reluctant to leave, just in case Goldi or Mr. Frodo needed anything. Goldi rolled her eyes at him and told him his brief time of usefulness with the pillows was at an end and he was of no more use.

But still he hesitated. "Go to bed, Fro!" Goldi commanded, pushing him out the door.

"But-"

"Don't make me have to lock this door," she threatened.

"All right, I'll sleep on the couch."

"If you fall asleep somewhere other than your bed, so help me, I'll dump a chamberpot on your head."

"You're not Mum, you can't tell me what to do," Frodo-lad said huffily.

"You should have the sense to use your perfectly good bed, what with being almost of age and all," Goldi shot back. "Mr. Frodo will most likely sleep the rest of the night. He usually does. If he asks for you, I'll fetch you. All right?" she said in a gentler tone.

"Oh, all right. But you're still bossy."

"And you're pigheaded. Sleep well." Goldi closed the door in his face.


	15. Comfort

Wordcount: 4,711 for this part

A/N: The medical-type stuff in this fic has not been run by those who know more about such things than I do, so no guarantees that it is realistic despite the research I did.

Warning: We have progressed to the point in which Frodo's death is openly discussed. Also, there are bodily functions and other such things present (but you could probably guess that).

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Chapter Summary: Frodo tries to recover from the anniversary illness; the crate from Merry arrives.

* * *

Listening carefully to Goldilocks as she related what happened overnight, Rosie patted Frodo's face dry of the lingering sweat from his ordeal. "He said that your rubbing helped?" she inquired, briefly gauging Frodo's fever with a touch to his forehead and neck.

"He said it felt good. It did seem to help, too, but he didn't say so."

"You'll have to show me how you did it. If it makes him more comfortable, we need to be able to do it while you're sleeping."

"O' course, Mum."

"Go and eat breakfast, dear, and we'll talk after. Send your father in, when you see him."

Rosie kissed her daughter and returned to Frodo's bedside, hesitating a moment. She hated to wake him, but it was past time for his tea and she fully expected him to have some personal business to attend to. Gently stroking his hair, she spoke to him, urging him to wake, until his eyes fluttered and he sighed.

"Morning already?" he asked, launching into a weak bout of coughing.

Rosie dabbed his mouth with the handkerchief afterward. "Aye, 'tis morning, and you need to be awake for a time. I've got your tea and a bit of breakfast, and Sam should be coming to help you with the necessaries."

"Did I make much of a mess yesterday?" he asked anxiously.

"What? No, no, you were all right," she assured him. He gave her a look that indicated he knew better, so she added, "We only had to change the bedsheets once."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It weren't anything you could help. I'm just that glad you don't have to endure such things every day anymore."

Frodo smiled slightly. "Me too," he said softly.

Sam arrived then. "You're looking better, Mr. Frodo," he said, standing beside Rosie and squeezing Frodo's hand.

"Better than yesterday, perhaps," Frodo said dryly.

"What do you want to do first?" Rosie asked, sensing that the conversation was growing awkward.

"I had better tend to business," Frodo said, pushing himself up from the pillows, wincing.

Rosie put a hand behind his back to help him. "Put your legs over the side and move them a bit afore you try to stand," she advised.

Sam stood in front of Frodo and helped him turn so his legs hung off the bed. Frodo paused there, adjusting to the change in position and the strange feeling of not being laid out in bed. When he was ready, Sam had Frodo hold on to his arms as he slowly got to his feet.

Frodo's head immediately began swimming and his feet were tingling as he straightened, but the movement emphasized a sense of urgency in reaching the privy seat, so he trusted that Sam's support would compensate for his weakness. The first shuffling step was all right, but as he shifted his weight to slide the other food forward, he could feel his knees rebelling. He dug his fingers into Sam's arms, fighting for control.

He was never certain afterward if he passed out or simply fell, but the next thing he knew he was on his knees -which ached terribly- and Sam was crouching in front of him, holding his shoulders and peering at his face anxiously. Frodo could hear Rosie's hurried steps as she came 'round the bed, then she was hovering over him, saying something that Frodo couldn't hear over the blood rushing in his ears.

"I'm all right," he said numbly, hoping that was what was being asked. He felt her hands replacing Sam's, which disappeared as Rosie pushed him down to sit on his heels. Sam's hands returned with the chamberpot; Frodo felt almost like he was watching from outside his own body as he saw Sam help him use the chamberpot, his own hands only twitching uselessly when he tried to move them to do it himself. Rosie leaned his head on her shoulder and rubbed his back, saying something presumably directed at Sam, for Frodo couldn't understand a word of it.

Slowly Frodo regained the function of his ears and limbs and he ventured plaintively, "What happened?"

"That's what I was going to ask you," Rosie said, clasping one of his still-trembling hands.

"I felt . . . strange," Frodo said, trying to remember as much as he could.

"Are you still feeling strange?"

"No, not as much."

"Can you try to stand if we help you?"

"I can try."

With the help of Sam and Rosie, Frodo got to his feet long enough to sink gratefully onto the edge of the bed. "I'm sorry about all that."

Rosie wanted to tell him he didn't need to apologize for anything, but she patted his leg instead. He would keep apologizing no matter what she said.

"It's all right, we're here to help you," Sam assured him.

Frodo shrugged and looked at his hands, fisting them to stop the shaking. Then he started to move himself back to his usual spot, but had to stop abruptly when his back cramped up; he had to collapse onto the bed in pain. He held back a whimper when the mattress dipped as Sam knelt on the bed and moved him into place instead.

"Is that all right, Mr. Frodo?" Sam asked anxiously.

Frodo tried to blink back the tears in his eyes. "Thank you. It will have to be good enough."

"Nonsense," Rosie interjected. She fussed with pillows and shifting Frodo's limbs for a few minutes until she thought Frodo looked more comfortable. "Is that better?"

"Some," Frodo admitted.

She propped his head a little higher and picked up the cup of tea. "This will help, too."

This, Frodo insisted on doing himself, despite an inauspicious start when he spilled on himself while taking the cup. At least it was fairly cool by then, so he didn't burn himself in the process.

Rosie gently encouraged Frodo to eat some breakfast and left Sam with Frodo. Sam commented about the previous day and how he'd done fairly well with keeping the anniversary memories at bay. Frodo took it as it was meant -a compliment- and decided not to enlighten Sam that he was still paying for that effort today . . . he felt so very weak and ill in a way he hadn't before, and he was sure the exertion brought it on. Or it was the worsening of his illness, which also wouldn't have occurred so quickly if not for that ordeal. Somehow he knew that if he voiced any of it, Sam would try to insist the weakness was just temporary, he'd feel much better after a good rest . . . it made Sam so very difficult to talk to.

Frodo remained withdrawn while Sam was with him, speaking only when asking Sam to fetch Mr. Fuzzy off the table for him.

.

Rosie came back to see Frodo after second breakfast so Sam could go and eat. He looked to be asleep when she sat down, but then he spoke. "You look tired. Sam did, too. Why don't you both go take a nap?"

"Oh, no, I'm all right," Rosie responded, touched that Mr. Frodo bothered to notice her weariness.

"You can let Rose-lass watch me for a while. I'm not going anywhere just yet, I promise," Frodo persisted.

It was a tempting idea. "Are you comfortable?"

"I am quite settled," Frodo said emphatically. "I know yesterday was hard on all of you . . . go, I'll be fine. I'll sleep a while myself, I'm sure."

Rosie still hesitated.

"Please, I insist."

Rosie's resistance gave way. "Oh, all right, then. Are you sure there's nothing you need?"

"There's nothing you can do for me right now," Frodo assured her.

She knew there was something he wasn't saying -perhaps that no one could do anything for him?- but took him at his word for now. "Have Rose-lass fetch us if you need anything," she said as she rose and pressed a kiss to his forehead.

"I don't think that will be necessary," Frodo said with a slow smile, thinking of her keeping her siblings in line at the Free Fair without even raising her voice. "She's quite capable."

"Aye, that she is, but if something comes up, she shouldn't be afraid to wake us. I'll tell her that directly, as well."

Frodo nodded, and Rosie left. Rose-lass appeared a few minutes later, drying her hands on a towel draped over her apron's string. She greeted him and did some tidying before sitting down. A few moments later, both of their attention was drawn to some noise and shouting from the other side of the smial. Rose-lass ran out and took a good ten minutes to return.

"What happened?" Frodo asked curiously.

"Merry and Pippin were arguing about doing the laundry. I set them straight, don't you worry."

"Merry and Pippin? I thought they went to the farm with the others."

"Oh, aye, they're sleeping at the farm, but Ma has them coming up days to mind the outdoor chores and whatever else needs doing."

"I see."

The room was silent once more, and Frodo nearly managed to fall asleep. When a knock on the front door roused him from his doze, it took some effort to resist the temptation to squeeze the stuffing out of Mr. Fuzzy in frustration -after all, it wasn't the poor bear's fault, and he'd been through enough in his plush existence. Frodo penitently stroked the bear's head and waited for Rose-lass to tell him what was going on now.

She handed him a letter when she got back. "A crate for Mum and a letter for you came in the Post from Uncle Merry. Did you want me to read it to you?"

Frodo fumbled with the paper but managed to open the letter, then couldn't help chuckling at the over-large writing within. "No, I think I can handle this, thank you," he said, briefly showing her the first page.

_Dearest Frodo,_

_I hope this letter finds you in a tolerable state of mind and health. I've sent some things to Rosie to help keep you comfortable; I only hope they will be of service to you. Of course, they will do you no good if you do not speak of your discomfort and Rosie doesn't know they are needed. You keep far too many things to yourself, my dear cousin._

_If you don't mind terribly, I think I shall drag Pippin along with me when I visit after my little party. At least then we can entertain one another while you sleep rather than getting in poor Rosie's hair!_

_Do let me know how you're doing. I think about you constantly._

_Your loving cousin_

_Merry_

Merry really could be a nag, but Frodo knew he needed it sometimes. Today was one of those times, so he set the letter aside and thought about things for a while. He was rather curious what was in that crate . . .

.

Rosie was roused by the growling of her stomach. She groggily raised her head to peer at the clock, realizing after staring at a blank space for several befuddling moments that their clock was in Frodo's room for the time being, as he felt less confused upon waking when he could see a clock. Sam still slept soundly -he always had slept like a log- so she kissed him gently and climbed out of bed.

Fixing her hair as she made her way to the kitchen, she listened for any sounds out of place. She noticed the crate on the kitchen table, but her attention was diverted by the mess of crumbs and dirty plates left on the table; she scolded her sons from the back door, demanding they come in this instant and clean up after themselves. While Merry and Pippin sheepishly tidied up under her wrathful supervision and retreated back outdoors, Rosie debated between eating and opening the crate. Her stomach insistently growled as she thought about eating, so she relented and made a quick sandwich, taking a few bites before wiping the butter knife on the dishcloth so she could pry open the crate.

There was a packet on top addressed to her, so she sat down with her sandwich and started going through the papers. The first sheet was a note from Merry, telling her that the rest of the pages were directions for using the various herbs and tinctures in the package, and he confided that he'd told Frodo to speak up when he needs something, but Frodo can be too stoic for his own good, so she should never take him at his word if he said he was all right. Rosie snorted and muttered that she'd learned that quite well already, but having confirmation from his family reassured her that she was going about things in the right fashion.

Skimming through the pages of instructions, Rosie quickly decided that she would need Rose-lass -and perhaps Rose-lass and Goldilocks both- to help her decipher the writing and decide what to try first. Finishing her sandwich, she rose from the table, dropped the papers back into the top of the crate, and went to check on Mr. Frodo.

Rose-lass met her in the hall. "I don't want to wake him, now that he's finally asleep an' all," she explained as she closed the door almost all the way.

"He's havin' trouble sleeping now?" This was new, and it worried her.

"Seems so. Aside from reading the letter he got, he's just been shifting around like he can't get comfortable or just stares at nothing in particular. But he keeps saying I can't help 'im."

"What letter?" Rosie chose not to comment on Mr. Frodo's characteristic reticence.

"From Uncle Merry, it came with your crate. You did see the crate?"

"Aye, and I'll need your help to read some of the instructions he sent. The writing's all fancy-like."

Rose-lass agreed and Rosie sent her off to eat something, taking her place with Mr. Frodo. Sam came looking for her about a half-hour later, and their quiet conversation prompted Mr. Frodo to mumble about noisy hobbits interrupting a perfectly good nap. Rosie apologized but figured he must have been near to waking anyhow, if whispers were enough to wake him.

Since Frodo was awake, they tried again to have him traverse the short distance to the privy seat, with similar results as before, though Sam was ready to catch him this time and they did manage to get him onto the seat to do his business. Frodo's knees were grateful for being saved the abuse. Frodo was frustrated that he could not even seem to stand anymore, and combined with his general misery, he felt near to weeping.

Frodo allowed himself to wallow in self-pity for a while after that. Rosie grew impatient with his moping when he completely refused to eat luncheon; she wished to scold him like a bairn but resorted to bribery instead. "If you eat all of any one of the dishes you've got there, we'll let you have your bath right after rather than waiting until the usual time." Frodo looked unconvinced. "And I won't bother you about afternoon tea. But you've got to drink all of your tea now, as well."

This was acceptable, though it took Frodo some pondering to decide which foodstuff was the best candidate. He was growing tired of applesauce, the shepherd's pie looked too intimidating, and bread and cheese would be hard to swallow after a while. Which left the unidentifiable soup. At least there was only a cup's worth and not a whole bowl's worth.

He slowly drank the soup -some mixture of vegetables, with potato chunks thrown in for good measure- and reflected that a bath may be just what he needed. He felt grimy from yesterday, and soaking just might help some of his aches. Or so he hoped, anyway -the constant pain made him almost afraid to move, which made him stiffen up in an effort not to move, which made the aches worse when he did end up moving . . . it was all a big mess, and it was making him irritable. Some part of him wished it would all just end, or at least that dying didn't have to be so painful, but he tried not to dwell on such thoughts.

Swallowing the very last potato with difficulty, Frodo held up his end of the bargain. He felt uncomfortably overfull, his stomach churning uneasily, but eating had helped his headache a bit, so as long as he managed not to throw up, he would be all right. Fortunately, it was nearly an hour before the bathwater was warm and ready, so his stomach was slightly more settled when Frodo-lad came to fetch him.

When Frodo-lad set him on the stool in the bathing room, Frodo grabbed hold of his arm so he couldn't straighten up again. "Help me stand up?"

Aware of the earlier failed attempts at walking, Frodo-lad nodded. He held out his hands for Mr. Frodo to use as leverage, then moved behind the vertical Mr. Frodo and set his hands on Mr. Frodo's waist. "What did you want to do from here?" he asked curiously.

"I'd like to see if I can climb into the tub myself," Frodo replied.

Frodo-lad let go of him for a moment, watching carefully to see if he wobbled or listed to one side or the other. "Then let me take this off for you," he said, smoothly lifting the nightshirt over his head.

Frodo swayed a moment as putting his arms up changed his balance, but was pleased with himself when he stayed on his feet. He knew better than to go any further without Frodo-lad's watchful assistance, so he waited until he felt the hands at his waist to do anything further. The stool was right next to the tub, so all he had to do was lift one leg over the side, then the other, and he would be done. It seemed quite simple.

Reality, however, is anything but simple. As soon as Frodo lifted his first leg, his hands on Frodo-lad's arms for balance, his other leg thwarted his attempts to tell it to lock in place and collapsed. Frodo-lad was quick to tighten his grip so Mr. Frodo didn't fall, but the abrupt pressure on his stomach caused the bile to rise in Frodo's throat and he gagged, turning his head just in time to spare the bathwater and introduce what had become of his soup to his nightshirt, which Frodo-lad had dropped on the floor.

Wide-eyed, Frodo-lad asked, "Are you all right, Mr. Frodo?"

"I ate too much, but I feel much better now," Frodo informed him cheerfully, as his stomach truly did feel better. "I knew my leg was feeling a tad numb at times, but it seems to have stopped listening to me entirely," he said meditatively. This caused him some consternation, though it would explain his earlier mishaps.

"Are you standing all right at the moment?" Frodo-lad asked. When Frodo answered in the affirmative, Frodo-lad let go of him and knelt next to him, putting both hands around Mr. Frodo's right knee. "Hold on to my shoulder, shift your weight to this side, and try to stay standing," he instructed. Sure enough, as soon as Frodo-lad felt Mr. Frodo's weight shifting, the knee bent of its own accord. "If I hold your knee straight, can you get in the tub?" Mr. Frodo's hand on his shoulder gripped tightly, then he heard the small splash of his foot landing in the tub.

Frodo-lad hadn't thought ahead to what he'd do at this point, and he suddenly realized when Mr. Frodo was half in, half out of the tub, his dry leg only holding him up because Frodo-lad was keeping it there. "Can you lean on the other leg without slipping?" he asked, hoping the answer was yes. It was, so once Mr. Frodo didn't need to hold onto him as tightly, he shifted his grip to Mr. Frodo's waist and started to stand. "I've got you, go ahead and finish, then."

As the trouble a moment ago should have warned him, Frodo had trouble getting his leg to lift itself, too. He frowned and leaned forward a bit onto his other leg, getting his right foot off the floor that way, then grew impatient and used his hands to put the darn leg into the water. Frodo-lad watched his difficulty with sympathy and was just about to offer his help when Mr. Frodo resolved the situation, though he noted that Mr. Frodo hadn't quite lifted his leg high enough and his foot struck the edge of the tub with some force. He was astonished when Mr. Frodo showed no sign of feeling any pain, and instead asked to be allowed to sit down.

When Mr. Frodo was settled in the tub, Frodo-lad took the stool to the end by Mr. Frodo's feet and said, "Let me have a look at your right foot."

"Why?" Frodo asked, lifting it from the water with his hands.

Frodo-lad held the foot and ran his fingers over the top and inside arch. "You smacked it good, getting into the tub. Right in here," he said, running his finger along the reddened area almost midway up the foot at the height of his arch. "You'll have a real nice bruise." He placed the foot back underwater and rose to pick up the nightshirt.

Frodo was horrified. He'd kept mum about the recent tendency of his legs to feel numb or tingle quite dreadfully, as he'd attributed it to being abed and lying in such positions that allowed his legs to fall asleep, much as one's hand has no feeling for a while, then tingles and burns, after having been laid on while sleeping. But to not feel an injury! It was a terrifying thought, and he tried to quell his rising panic. He wielded the washcloth and attacked the soap with a vengeance, doing all he could to keep from thinking about his dratted leg. But his thoughts ever strayed back to that very subject; he dropped the cloth and buried his face in his hands to hide the hot tears coursing down his cheeks.

"Mr. Frodo?" Frodo-lad asked gently. Mr. Frodo didn't answer, so he retrieved the cloth and silently washed the elder hobbit's back.

Frodo coughed as Frodo-lad helped him out of the tub, and he huddled miserably on the stool as he was dried, then bundled over to the cushion before the fire. Rosie joined them, bearing two new bottles that she said might help with his sores. Frodo shrugged carelessly and buried his face in his arms, listening while Frodo-lad told his mother what had happened earlier and trying not to react to Rosie's involuntary cry of dismay when Frodo-lad showed her the developing bruise.

The conversation ended and Rosie sat cross-legged next to him and rubbed his shoulders and upper back. She didn't speak and didn't seem to expect him to speak, which Frodo appreciated as his exhaustion from hardly sleeping all day was catching up to him. He was only vaguely aware of being taken back to his room; since sleep afforded an opportunity to escape thinking about his condition, he grasped it without hesitation and was oblivious to the world as soon as the brief pains associated with being settled into bed had ceased.

.

A familiar but long-unheard voice. He fought the tides of sleep that he'd surrendered to so readily before, at length able to open his eyes. Another chair had materialized next to his bed, but he was more concerned with the occupants of those chairs: Rosie, sitting with . . . could it be? "Elanor?" he asked drowsily, bewildered.

She turned from her conversation with her mother to smile at him and grasp his hand. "Yes, Mr. Frodo. It's good to see you. How are you?"

Frodo pressed her hand. "I've been better," he said ruefully. "But what about you? Where is your little one?" And 'why are you here?' though he thought he knew the answer and thought the question was better left unasked. He coughed briefly but swallowed it as soon as he could to hear Elanor speak.

"I left Elfstan with Fastred," she explained. "They'll come in a fortnight if I don't send for them sooner. I wanted some time here without having to worry about the both of them." And because she wasn't sure what to expect based on her mother's letter, but she didn't want to admit it to him, especially now that she could see how very frail he had become.

She told him some of the doings of her little family, how the settlement was faring, and how Elfstan had just begun walking with help. Frodo was delighted to hear about all of it and listened intently, hardly noticing when Rosie left and other members of the family cycled through his room, greeting Elanor and listening to her news.

Frodo-lad was lounging in the other chair, occasionally reaching out a foot to play with her skirt because he knew it bothered her when he did that, when Frodo asked shyly, "Have you seen the Sea?"

Elanor hesitated, then nodded. "We paid a visit to the seaside last summer."

"What was it like?" Frodo asked breathlessly.

Elanor described the continual murmur of the waves, the smell, the birds and their cries, the roar of the surf when the wind picked up, and how the color of the water reflected the mood of the sky. Frodo-lad ceased his annoyance of his sister to listen with great attention, recalling that last chapter of Mr. Frodo's book. He watched Mr. Frodo's face, seeing that he, too, thought of the Book, for he wore the same wistful expression that Frodo-lad had often observed when he read to him.

When she trailed off with, "It's really quite beautiful," an enraptured silence reigned in the bedroom. Frodo-lad grew restless and tugged on Elanor's skirt with his toes; without even looking toward him, she slapped his foot hard. She glared at him and growled, "Fro, if you don't cut it out this instant, I'm going to end you."

Frodo-lad grinned at her. "I've missed you, Elly."

"Well I haven't missed you," she said archly. "It's so much more peaceful without brothers constantly hanging about."

Rosie brought in a tray and said cheerfully, "Suppertime. Elanor, go on ahead to the kitchen, I'll be right there."

Elanor nodded and rose, squeezing Frodo's hand once more before she departed. "Supper? What happened to dinner?" Frodo asked, peering at the clock on the mantelpiece.

"You slept through it. I didn't have the heart to wake you," Rosie replied.

Frodo nodded and applied his attention to his food. As always, he ate what he could and left the rest, though Frodo-lad snitched his roll and some of the roast beef; he'd eaten already, yet there was always room for more. Elanor returned for a short while after supper, but wished to retire early to recover from her journey. Rosie checked on Mr. Frodo and Frodo-lad at nearly nine, and was surprised to see Mr. Frodo still awake. "Do you need something to help you sleep?" she asked, putting her hand to his forehead, then stroking his cheek.

"I don't know . . ." Frodo said uncertainly. Taking a breath to continue resulted in coughing; Rosie helped him sit up while Frodo-lad poured a cup of water. He drank cautiously, then said, "It feels more difficult to breathe, somehow, but I doubt there's a draught for that."

Rosie chuckled. "Nay, but another pillow or two should be just the thing. Lad, would you . . .?"

An extra couple of pillows did help with that complaint, and Frodo said so. Rosie was pleased, but sensed lingering unease in his manner. "What hurts, then?" she asked directly.

He blinked at her, then said wearily, "I think it's a headache."

Rosie wetted a handkerchief in the water pitcher, wrung it out, and folded it on his forehead. Frodo sighed (and coughed), closing his eyes. "Will that be enough, or should I put the kettle on for you?"

"I think this will be enough for now, thank you," Frodo said softly.


	16. Acceptance

Wordcount: 5,232 for this part

Chapter Summary: Frodo and Rosie try to talk sense into Sam; Sam comes to a new conclusion.

* * *

Elanor settled into the caregiving routine as easily as if she'd been there the entire time. Frodo found he enjoyed her company -she and Frodo-lad had always been his favorites, as they were the only ones he'd known before his madness took hold- and he especially enjoyed it when she and someone else were both in his room, talking, since it meant he could enjoy listening to a conversation without the exertion of having to participate in it. It did take a day or two for him to be rid of the embarrassment of having her see and touch his body; though he was sure she had helped care for him before, he hadn't been aware of it, so it wasn't the same. And he knew he looked very different now, and he couldn't help being somewhat ashamed of the wreck he had become.

Also distressing were the daily reminders of his worsening illness and growing weakness. The day after Elanor arrived, Frodo convinced Sam and Rosie to let him have another go at shuffling to his privy seat. This time he made it as far as sitting on the edge of the bed before his back flared with agony, his left foot went numb (he still couldn't feel the right one; perhaps it was for the best, to judge by the large, colorful bruise he'd developed), and his chest felt tight, which made it difficult to breathe and resulted in considerable light-headedness. It didn't take long for him to admit defeat and ask for the chamberpot, consoling himself that at least he didn't need a diaper.

Then there was the cough. If he'd thought it was bad before -it already plagued him most of the times he spoke, sighed, or tried to breathe normally- he soon realized how easy he'd had it. When he breathed, no matter how shallowly, he coughed. When he swallowed, he coughed. If he moved, he coughed. Sometimes he woke up coughing, even, and Frodo didn't like that at all. Admittedly, most of the coughs were of a wheezy variety and didn't last long, but those coughs could easily turn into the other kind, the ones that came from somewhere so deep inside that he shook with them, his face turning red as the spasm continued seemingly without end, his vision acquiring spots, then becoming grey as he struggled to breathe.

Sometimes the coughing ended in retching, the blood he'd brought up from his lungs mingling with whatever was in his stomach at the time to make a pink-tinged mess (after the first time he'd stained a quilt in that manner, they always had a basin on hand). Sometimes the coughing ended in blissful darkness as he passed out -Frodo preferred this over the other, though he would have dispensed with the coughing entirely if it were up to him. The aftermath of such fits often made him wish he could be put out of his misery like a pony with a broken leg; it hurt to breathe, to talk, to move a hand or even a finger. Rosie always gave him something cool afterward, to ease his throat, and fussed over him until he fell into an exhausted sleep.

Within two days, Rosie had tried using all of the tonics Merry had sent, with mixed results. The salves for his sores and the tincture for his joints -including his back- worked, well, at least until Mr. Frodo had a coughing fit that made the pain resurface. The herbs for his cough and his breathing, tried both in a tea and as a steam he breathed, didn't seem to work at all, especially since the steam just seemed to make him cough more.

Then there were the ones for pain . . . they seemed to work, in that they put him straight to sleep, but Frodo didn't like taking them because he felt like he couldn't wake up. Rosie understood, but hated to see him so miserable, so she experimented with slipping small amounts in his tea to see if there was a way to compromise between helping his pain and keeping him as awake as he wanted to be. Frodo only sometimes noticed what she'd done, and he slept often enough that it wasn't always obvious when she'd intervened. For a time she'd been concerned about how often he seemed to be sleeping compared to before, but then, his rest was often interrupted by coughing, so it didn't seem unreasonable for him to be sleeping when he could.

Frodo found he didn't quite mind spending a bit more time asleep every day, for his dreams were calm and comforting: he dreamt of Bilbo, his parents, and the Sea, and felt a reassuring sense of peace that they would be there to greet him in the hereafter. The waking world with its agony didn't have much to offer in comparison, and if it weren't for the lingering anxiety of Sam, he would have more quickly been beyond the reach of physical pain. But there was Sam, his Sam, who wasn't ready to let him go just yet, so he steadfastly endured.

With an eye to acquaint Sam with the realities of his illness, Frodo often requested him to sit at the bedside and talk to him while he was awake, and hold his hand when he wasn't. Sam tried to keep a cheerful mien, but Frodo could tell he was discomfited by his master's situation and was not willing to accept that nothing more could be done. So Frodo resolved to talk to him about it.

An opportunity presented itself in the evening four days after Elanor's arrival when Frodo-lad offered to take his supper tray back to the kitchen. Sam had been sitting with Frodo since his bath, so Frodo gestured for Frodo-lad to lean close and whispered a request that he find other pursuits to occupy him until his father came to look for him. Frodo-lad nodded and made himself scarce.

After the lad's departure, a well-timed coughing fit seized him, one of the deep kind, though he managed not to throw up or pass out. But it did draw Sam's attention to him, and he took one of Frodo's hands in his. Frodo saw his chance and he took it.

"Sam," he wheezed, gripping the other hobbit's hand tightly as he fought for breath. "It will soon be time."

"No," Sam stubbornly insisted, shaking his head emphatically. "You'll get better, you will!"

A small smile flitted across Frodo's face before he wearily opened his eyes to glance at Sam. "My dear Sam," he said fondly. "I have lived my life . . . and a bit more, thanks to you." He choked and fought to swallow for a minute. Sam hurriedly grabbed the glass of water from the bedside stand, easing onto the edge of the bed to help Frodo drink. Frodo nodded slightly when he'd had enough, and added, "I've finished my time." He had to close his eyes as he caught his breath in shallow, painful gasps.

"No," Sam repeated numbly, tears pooling in his eyes.

With effort, Frodo lifted his hand, the other was still clasped in Sam's, and gently touched Sam's face, wiping away a few stray tears with his thumb. Sam could not help shivering at the touch -Frodo's hand was so cold despite the fever that afflicted him- but leaned into it just the same. "Sam," Frodo said gently. "You have done all you could and more even than I would have asked. There is nothing more you can do but let me go."

"But I can't follow," Sam said miserably and dropped his head to stare sadly at the quilt.

"No, not yet," Frodo agreed. "But you will, in many years, after you've lived and done many more things. Until then, you will be happy -more happy than you could be with an old, broken hobbit taking your attention from your family." Bitterness tinged these words and Frodo had to drop his arm as he fought for enough strength to say what needed to be said. "Don't cling to me, Sam, cling to your family. They need you, Sam. They need you whole."

"You- you're doing this a-purpose," Sam said, desperately grasping for anything to explain Frodo's insistence on this matter. "You're giving in, letting it take you. You can still fight it!"

"Sam," Frodo said commandingly, with more strength than he seemed to possess. "Sam, I have been fighting it -I would have been gone already if I weren't. And believe me, if I had to choose how to leave this life, it would not have been so lingering," he coughed a bit, "or so painful. No, Sam, I did not choose this. I have merely accepted my fate." His eyes slid shut for a moment, Frodo being too weary to keep them open.

"I can't believe that," Sam insisted, tears still trickling down his cheeks.

"Your refusal to believe doesn't change what is," Frodo whispered. "Promise me you'll think about it, Sam."

"I will," Sam replied, helpless to refuse his master.

"Good. Now I need to rest," Frodo said faintly before falling silent.

He became so still that Sam watched with fear until he saw that his chest was still moving, just a bit. Sam rose and went to find Frodo-lad for the next watch -it had grown quite late without him realizing it, and he desperately needed sleep . . . and time to think. Definitely time to think.

* * *

The next morning, Sam sent for the healer. When Rosie returned to the kitchen from waking Frodo and giving him his breakfast, Sam was talking to Merry at the door, then the lad ran off. Rosie thought nothing of it until Sam started and flushed guiltily when he turned and saw her. "Where's he off to?" she asked suspiciously.

Sam slowly closed the door, then admitted, "To fetch the healer."

"And just what are you about, Samwise Gamgee?" Rosie demanded sharply. "Why are you askin' him to waste his time coming up here?"

Sam shrugged, avoiding her gaze. "I thought maybe he could help."

Rosie snorted. "He didn't know enough to tell us what was wrong with Mr. Frodo in the first place! He ain't able to help and you know it." She softened her tone and added, "Even that Lord Elrond couldn't help 'im now."

"Don't say that!" Sam said wildly.

Rosie looked at him reproachfully. "You're blind as a bat when it comes to Mr. Frodo, Samwise Gamgee. He ain't getting better."

"He'll get better!" Sam insisted stubbornly.

"When your Gaffer was ill that last time, you knew he weren't going to recover. Mr. Frodo has been very ill for far longer, and you still don't accept that he won't be getting better. Why is he different than your Gaffer? It is not to us to say who lives or dies."

Sam buried his face in his hands. "Me Gaffer was much older, Rose. Mr. Frodo still has plenty of years left in 'im."

Rosie touched one of his arms lightly. "I don't think he does, Sam," she said softly. "Even before he was ill, he moved about like a gaffer twice his age. Don't tell me you didn't notice! With all he's been through, he's aged beyond his years . . . and neither you nor I can fix that, no matter how we wish to."

"I know," Sam sighed. "But I don't want to give up on him!"

"You're not giving up," Rosie soothed. "If there's nothing you can do to help, accepting that ain't giving up -giving up is only when you could still do something and don't."

Sam dropped into a chair at the table and buried his face in his hands, but did not answer.

Rosie patted his shoulder. "How about I clean up from breakfast, and you go sit with him a while? Rose is there now; have her come help Elanor with the laundry."

Sam nodded silently and wandered down the hall, looking lost. Rose watched him go and could only hope he would come around soon. Mr. Frodo couldn't hold on much longer -he hadn't said so, but her intuition was rarely wrong- he was only holding on until he knew Sam understood, and Sam was holding out on the belief Frodo would recover . . . stubborn menfolk.

Toby Mugwort arrived within an hour. Rosie met him at the door. "I do hope we aren't taking you from more urgent business."

"No, no, I haven't had more than a sore throat or a painful ear for three days," he assured her, hanging up his cloak. "Your lad said Mr. Baggins has the consumption? I don't expect I'll be able to do much."

"Aye. I didn't think you'd be able to help, but Sam wanted to make sure," Rosie said neutrally, trying not to reveal that it was a point of contention between them.

Mr. Frodo was awake but just barely. Toby greeted him, then said, "Do you mind if I examine you rather thoroughly? I've never seen a case of the consumption before, and it would be most helpful for my understanding."

Frodo chuckled soundlessly. "Do your worst," he invited. "You won't be able to make me worse off, that's for certain."

Rosie watched from the second chair; Sam still occupied the other, but said nothing as the examination moved forward. Toby was indeed thorough, listening carefully to Frodo's lungs, peering at his throat, and asking for more detail about the symptoms and their progression. Rosie answered his questions patiently, resisting the urge to hover protectively over Frodo until Toby's ministrations provoked a terrible coughing fit. Young Mugwort had his listening device pressed to Frodo's back as he sat curled forward in agony; Rosie pushed him out of the way and had Frodo lean against her. "You are finished here," she told him. "Sam, take him to the kitchen and give him some tea. I'll be there in a few minutes."

Frodo clutched her sleeve as he fought for control; she held the basin and waited. When the fit passed, she set the unused basin aside and held his trembling form gently. "Maybe I could use that diaper after all," he whispered.

"What do you mean?"

"The coughing . . . I'm wet again," he confessed. "I'm sorry."

"That's easy enough to fix."

Frodo-lad was getting dressed when he heard the coughing. He glanced into the kitchen on his way to Mr. Frodo's room and was puzzled to see the healer. He lurked in the doorway for a few moments to listen to the conversation between the healer and his father, but they were talking of the weather and planting, so it wasn't worth staying for. He continued to Mr. Frodo's room, where he saw his mother awkwardly trying to get Mr. Frodo's nightshirt off of him while Mr. Frodo was leaning heavily against her. He quickly moved to assist her, sliding his arms around Mr. Frodo to hold him upright.

"Ah, lad, thank you," Rosie said when she noticed him. She easily removed the nightshirt. "Would you pick him up for a moment?"

Frodo-lad carefully lifted Mr. Frodo clear of the damp pieces of flannel, which Rosie moved. She checked the oilcloth for wetness, then fetched and placed new flannel on the bed. Mr. Frodo shivered in Frodo-lad's arms, and Frodo-lad tried to soothe him. "Just a minute, Mr. Frodo, and we'll have you back in your nice, warm bed."

"His hands were so cold," Frodo murmured as if he hadn't heard. "I'm so cold."

"We'll get you warm again, don't worry," Frodo-lad said confidently, setting him back down on the bed.

Frodo focused on Rosie again as she started to pull the sheet and blankets over him. "Please. I don't want to make any more extra work for you," he said, sounding desperate, clinging to her like a weak kitten.

Rosie patted his hand and thought for a moment. "Don't you worry, Mr. Frodo. Will this make you feel better?" She pulled out another strip of flannel and laid it over his hips and groin to help protect the sheet from any accidents.

"That's a little better," Frodo conceded, and let them finish tucking him in. Still he shivered, so Rosie added another quilt and directed Frodo-lad to build up the fire.

"Why no nightshirt?" Frodo-lad asked her in a low voice when she joined him by the fire after Frodo was comfortable.

"He's got none clean at the moment," Rosie said with a sigh. "But it will be easier, this way. The less we have to be moving him around, the better."

Frodo-lad nodded. "Why is the healer here?"

Rosie resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "Your father thought he could be of use. What use, I don't know, but I'm going to go talk to them. Stay with him."

Frodo-lad didn't need to be told. He pulled the chair a little closer to the bed and held Mr. Frodo's hand tenderly.

Rosie found Toby and Sam discussing the winter rye harvest. She noisily pulled out a chair to disrupt the conversation and sat down next to Sam. "What did you think?" she asked without preamble. "Tell me straight."

Toby looked between her and Sam, then focused on her. "To be frank, looking at him it's a wonder he still lives. By rights, with as ill as he's been, he should've passed on by now." He saw Sam's face darken, and he turned to him. "I'm sorry, Mr. Mayor, but that's how I see it."

"Thank you for your honesty," Rosie said, drawing his attention back to her. "Please don't let us keep you if you need to be elsewhere."

"There was one thing I wished to ask," Toby ventured hesitantly. "Would you allow me to borrow the instructions you were sent by the Master's healer? I should like to have a copy for future use."

"You can have them to keep once we're done with them," Rosie said.

"Really? Oh, thank you, Mistress Gamgee! I don't wish to be so helpless should another such case come my way."

"But this time you'll just let him die," Sam said bitterly.

Rosie grabbed his arm and squeezed, hard, and hissed in his ear for him to be quiet. Toby spoke. "I'm sorry, Mr. Mayor, but there's truly nothing I can do."

"Then get out," Sam growled.

"Sam!" Rosie cried, alarmed.

"No, no, it's all right. I do need to be going," he said, rising from his seat and collecting his things.

When Sam didn't move, Rosie let go of his arm and escorted the healer out. He stopped in the doorway and said earnestly, "I do hope Mr. Baggins didn't suffer more than he should have as a result of my failure to recognize the ailment."

"He's suffered no more than he would have anyway, I think," Rosie said slowly, then smiled at him. "Good day."

He tipped his hat and left, swinging his bag as he whistled a merry tune.

Sam was still sitting at the table when Rosie returned to the kitchen, his elbows on the table and his face buried in his hands. His shoulders were shaking. "He was actually being reasonable, and you were unaccountably rude for it," she scolded.

"He's an idiot," Sam retorted.

"Sometimes, yes. But even he can recognize a deathly ill hobbit when he sees one. Unlike a certain hobbit I could mention," she shot back, aware that she was being cruel.

Sam hit the table with his fist; with his hands away from his face, Rosie could see he'd been weeping. "Rose Cotton, you stop this right now," he commanded threateningly.

"Stop what?" she demanded. "Stop trying to tell you that your dearest friend needs you desperately? Your refusal to see reason is hurting him, you know."

Sam stood abruptly, knocking over his chair. "Don't-!" he cried in dismay, then his shoulders slumped. "Just . . . leave me be, for a while," he said numbly, pushing past her to rush from the kitchen.

Rosie shook her head and righted the chair.

* * *

Fatty paid them a visit that afternoon. When Rosie opened the front door to see him on the stoop, she gestured for him to come in and asked wearily, "Which one are you here for?"

"I'd intended to see Frodo. I heard at the Ivy Bush that the healer was here this morning," he replied, hanging his cloak by the door and abruptly hugging her. "Is Sam still, ah, in denial?" he asked gently.

Rosie nodded against his shoulder. "He might be coming around; he was weeping earlier. But he's shut himself in the study and won't come out, so I don't know what's going on in that head of his." She stepped out of his embrace. "Mr. Frodo is sleeping, but you're welcome to go on in. Elanor's with him right now."

"Ah, Elanor's back in town? Good, good," Fatty said briskly. "I'll pop on in, then, and say hullo."

Elanor was pleased to see him, and Frodo seemed to wake up at hearing his voice. "Fatty?" he said weakly. "It's been a while."

"Yes, I'm sorry, Frodo. I wanted to make sure you'd not get tired of me," he joked.

Frodo chuckled and coughed. "I'm afraid I'm not very good company today."

"I don't expect you to entertain me, Frodo," Fatty chided, squeezing his hand. "As long as you're glad to see me, I'm satisfied."

"I'm glad to see you," Frodo replied obediently, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Has that grandbabe of yours been born yet?"

"No, not yet. I'm told it could be any time now. My wife will be leaving tomorrow to stay with them and help out with the grand event," Fatty said, easily settling in and entertaining Frodo with stories of what he'd been up to of late. After a while he leaned over to Elanor and said, "I think he's asleep. What do you think?"

They both watched him for a moment, but there was no reaction to Fatty's words. "I think you're right," Elanor replied.

"Then I think I shall go find out what your father is up to in that study of his," he said, rising. He pressed a kiss to Frodo's forehead, then turned to Elanor again. "I've told your mother this, but I'll tell you as well: please send for me if you need anything, or if it seems he's near the end. The Post-office will know where to find me if I'm not at home."

"We will certainly send for you," Elanor promised.

Fatty patted her shoulder and wandered down the hall to the study. He tapped on the door a few times, with no answer. He tried to open it, but it was locked. "Sam?" he called softly. "It's me. Do you need to talk?"

"I've had quite enough talk, thank you," came Sam's muffled response. "Unless there's business you need me for, I'd rather you left me be."

"No, I have no business," Fatty replied reluctantly. "I'll be back again in a few days, but you know where to find me." There was no reply to this offer, so he gave up and went to the kitchen, where he found Rosie beating bread dough. "I'm off," he told her. "I'll be back in a day or two, but if you need me . . ."

Rosie nodded and continued manhandling the dough. "Sam . . ?"

"Didn't want to talk. Didn't even open the door."

Rosie sighed and slapped the dough back in its bowl. "It don't know what I'm going to do with him."

"If I may, I would suggest leaving him be, just as he asks. He's seen and heard enough by now, I'd warrant, that he doesn't need anyone trying to rub it in. You have enough help, yes?"

"Aye, that's one thing I've got," she confirmed. "Good thing we had so many bairns, eh?" She wiped her hands on a towel.

Fatty chuckled. "I don't think that quite makes up for all the trouble they've put you through," he said with a wink. "But it's useful at the moment."

Rosie hugged him. "All right, be off with you. The package by the door is for your grandbabe." She had finally finished her embroidery the night before, and quickly wrapped it in paper while Fatty was visiting with Mr. Frodo.

"Thank you. Good luck."

* * *

Sam stayed in the study until nearly midnight, aimlessly going through old papers with Frodo's handwriting on them and trying not to succumb to a profound feeling of melancholy. He crept out into the darkened hallway and tiptoed to Frodo's room, standing in the doorway and watching him sleep. "Da?" Frodo-lad asked from the chair beside Mr. Frodo. Sam shook his head and waved away any questions his son may have asked, and stumbled to the kitchen. He was famished, but ate guiltily, somehow feeling that he was wrong to enjoy eating when poor Mr. Frodo could hardly manage a few bites at each meal. It made no sense, he knew, but no one ever said feelings had to make sense.

After he ate, he felt drawn back to Frodo's room. He stood awkwardly in the doorway for a moment, then ventured in. Frodo-lad was idly paging through the Red Book, and Frodo was sleeping quietly, his breath a quiet wheeze, and a hint of a smile on his pallid face. Frodo-lad saw his Da watching, spell-bound, and said softly, "He's dreaming of the Sea, most like."

Startled, Sam turned to his son. "How do you know?"

"That's the look he gets when I read him the last chapter," he replied, turning to the well-worn page and offering the book to Sam.

Sam took it gingerly, knowing before he looked which part Frodo-lad referred to. "Do you mind if I borrow this for a spell?" he asked.

Frodo-lad shrugged. "Not at all. It's time for me to be waking Goldi and heading to bed anyway."

"I thought she's usually awake by now?"

"Aye, but sometimes she grabs a nap on the sofa while I'm in here. Being up nights is hard for her."

"I didn't realize . . ." Sam murmured to himself. He wandered out of the room again, the Red Book still open in his hands, and was torn between returning to his haven and going in to Rosie, who must be worried sick about him by now. His feet decided for him, depositing him back at the study, so he shuffled in and locked the door again. After carefully setting the Book on his cluttered desk, he sighed and sank onto the settee, quickly succumbing to a restless sleep.

Sam secluded himself for the entire next day, tiredly going over the same train of thoughts over and over in his head. Rosie left food for him outside the door, knocking and calling to him before turning away; at lunchtime she realized, a knot of fear forming in her stomach, that she used to do the same for Mr. Frodo when he was working so feverishly on his book. She said a prayer to whatever power might be listening that her Sam would come back to her, hale and sound of mind.

Late in the day Sam's eyes fell on the open book and he remembered what Frodo-lad had said the night before. Reverently he picked up the book and sat down to read that strange last chapter, the only part of the entire book that Sam didn't understand. He read and re-read it, weeping as the words spoke to him that Frodo had always intended to leave him behind, one way or another. His heart clenched and he wondered how he could possibly stand it.

On a whim, he turned to the passage where he thought Mr. Frodo was dead after the attack of Shelob. He read almost breathlessly, those words written so long ago reassuring him that Frodo could die and he could continue on, just as was the case in that dark pass. It's just that this time, there would be no finding out that Mr. Frodo was miraculously alive after all. And that was the sticking point: if Frodo died, he would be gone forever.

Sam heard Rosie's voice in his head, telling him he was being absurd, thinking he could somehow keep Frodo from dying simply by not accepting that he was dying. He had to admit it then; he was being quite absurd, and causing Frodo worry for it. Frodo, who had suffered more than any hobbit deserved, and his Sam was making it worse by clinging to him, insisting that he could, and would, recover.

But how could he let him go? Frodo had been a fact of life for so long, the mere idea of his absence produced such a profound empty feeling in Sam's heart that he didn't think he could bear it.

.

Goldi was startled from a doze by her Da suddenly appearing in the room. "Da?" she asked drowsily. "Are you all right?"

Sam looked haggard and weary, but he moved purposefully to Frodo's bedside and stood there, watching. "I just needed to look at him," he said.

Frodo stirred. "Sam," he sighed, and moved his hand searchingly over the coverlet.

Sam grasped the trembling fingers. "How is he?" he asked his daughter, acutely aware that he'd been absent for the better part of a day and a half.

"Fro called it 'declining,'" she said. "He's been shivering since the healer came, so today they started putting hot water bottles along his sides. Don't seem to be helping, though. His headaches are worse so he can't stand much light, but he won't let us give 'im much of the strong stuff for the pain. All else is as it's been, or so I figure. That's all Fro told me, at any rate."

Sam nodded dazedly. "Would you . . . leave us alone for a few minutes?"

"Sure, Da. I'll be in the kitchen getting a bite to eat." She kissed his cheek on her way out the door.

Sam sank onto the edge of the bed, still clutching Frodo's hand. He sighed. "I don't know where to begin, Mr. Frodo," he said, his voice cracking. "I've been a right fool and made you fret about me. I'm that sorry, I can't even say." He took a deep breath, then continued, his voice wavering, "If you need to leave us, please don't let me keep you here . . . you won't be hurtin' so bad then, though I'll sure miss you."

He couldn't continue, and the tears coursed down his cheeks. Frodo never woke during his confession; Sam felt better for saying it, though he knew he'd have to say something like it again when Frodo could hear him.

Sam had been sitting, weeping, for several minutes when Frodo murmured, "Mama?" Sam froze and watched Frodo's face. Frodo frowned, then mumbled, "No, no, Mama. Not yet. I can't come yet . . ." He fell silent again, and Sam felt himself able to breathe again, though his tears started anew.

He stumbled out of the bedroom, pausing long enough at the kitchen to gesture somehow to Goldi that she'd better go back to him, and ended up in his own bedroom. Rosie was sound asleep and did not stir when he crawled in beside her. He kissed the nape of her neck, then collapsed onto his pillow, falling asleep fully clothed.


	17. Waiting

Wordcount: 2,704 for this part (yeah, it's a short-ish one...)

Chapter Summary: Frodo and Sam talk; Frodo's cousins are sent for.

* * *

Rosie stole silently into the darkened room, her ears listening for the slight variance in the shallow breaths that indicated whether the bed's occupant was asleep or awake. He was awake, but his eyes were closed, so she quietly set her burdens on the cluttered table, gestured for Goldi to go ahead and leave, and watched him for a moment. There was no color in his face, not even a fever blush on his cheeks, and were it not for the bits of darker hair amidst the grey on his head, he would be pale enough so as not to be distinguished from the white of his sheets.

All of him save his head was tucked under a pile of blankets and quilts, and still he shivered -he seemed unable to get warm no matter what they did. Still, she would need to warm some new water bottles in hopes that would finally do the trick, even though every other time it had not. She had to at least try to make him more comfortable, though at this point she supposed only one thing would actually make him comfortable. That was the one thing she could not do for him.

The watery eyes finally swam open and regarded her tiredly. "Morning, Mr. Frodo," she greeted as she lit a lamp on the table so she could see more clearly. Not waiting for a response -he didn't talk much now because it was too much effort most times- she said, "I have some tea for you. Just a bit, mind, but I thought it might help dull the pain."

His eyes held something like surprise, perhaps because he never ever mentioned that he was in pain, not anymore -it was a constant complaint. Answering the unspoken question, she said, "I don't need you to tell me you're in pain, dear. It's plain as can be when I just look at you. Now open up and I'll give this to you nice and easy like. And don't you worry, it's not the strong stuff that you don't like."

The one mercy of his current state was that where it was easiest for him to breathe -sitting nearly upright- was also where it was easiest to help him drink. He parted his almost colorless lips obediently and Rosie tipped the cup ever so slightly so he got the tiniest of sips.

It took the better part of a half hour, but she successfully fed him all of the tea. She set the cup aside and poured water from her pitcher into the basin already there. The water was hot when she brought it in, but had cooled to lukewarm, which was better for her purposes. She wet a cloth and began sponging the sweat from his face, for simply breathing took enough effort to make him sweat. His limp curls clung wetly to his forehead; she brushed them aside before dotting the cloth on his brow. He had closed his eyes again and sighed almost imperceptibly, but even that made him cough. It sounded different than earlier -weaker, more desperate- and even now it made her blood run cold, for she knew it meant the end drew ever nearer.

Frodo's breath settled back into more of a rattling wheeze, and Rosie mopped his face with the cloth again. "Poor dear," she murmured, "I wish I could make you more comfortable." She added under her breath, "But I fear there is only one way out of this for you."

He must have heard her, for his eyes flew open and he looked at her urgently. "Please help Sam understand," he begged in a hoarse whisper as a tear trickled down his face. "He must let me go."

Rosie gently wiped the tear from his cheek. "I'm trying, really I am. Our Sam can be stubborn as a mule when he has a mind to. And he's been trying to keep you alive so long that the thought of letting you die rankles him." She paused, then said, "I will speak to him again. He finally came out of that dratted study, so perhaps he's open to reason."

Frodo mouthed the words 'thank you.'

Rosie patted his shoulder through the blankets. "No need to thank me, dear. I'd do most anything for you, if it would help." She fussed with his blankets for a moment, smoothing them out and tucking them more securely around his shoulders. "Is there anything you need before I fetch the next batch of warm bottles? A drink of water, perhaps?"

He slightly shook his head no, so she patted his shoulder again and stood. "I'll be back in a trice."

Elanor was in the kitchen making tea when she entered. "Help me with these bottles, Elly?" she asked quietly. "Mr. Frodo is still shivering something fierce."

"Of course, Mum," she replied, easily lifting the larger bottles and slipping them into their quilted covers.

Rosie prepared her burden likewise, and they were soon in Mr. Frodo's room, carefully sliding the warm bottles in place of those that had lost their heat. Mr. Frodo had fallen asleep, which was fortunate; the constant lifting of the covers always chilled him no matter how careful they were. After they collected the cold bottles and returned them to the kitchen, Elanor volunteered to sit with Mr. Frodo and Rosie agreed absently, lost in thought.

"Mum? Is Da sleeping, then?" Goldi asked from the table where she was finishing her breakfast.

"Hm? Oh, aye, he's sleeping. Did ye see him last night?"

"This morning, aye. Came to Mr. Frodo's room 'round about three, asked me to leave them alone for a bit," Goldi told her seriously. "He stayed for maybe a quarter hour, then went hurrying off toward your room. I think he was talkin' to Mr. Frodo, but whatever Da said, Mr. Frodo didn't hear it -Fro told me he asked for some of the poppy after you went to bed."

Rosie nodded, some of the pieces falling into place in her mind. "I'll let 'im sleep a while longer," was all she said aloud. "Go on to bed if you're done eating, lass. And thank you." She hugged her daughter tightly. "Oh, make sure Rose is awake. She's running late today, it seems."

.

Sam awoke to find Rosie staring at him, a pensive look on her face. "Sam," she sighed, touching his cheek when she saw he was awake. "It's been a bit since you've spent time in our bed."

"I know, and I'm right sorry, lass," Sam said repentantly, capturing her hand and kissing its palm. "I'll try not to worry you anymore."

Rosie searched his eyes and saw sorrow and pain. "Are you . . . ?" She couldn't find it in herself to finish the question, as she was not quite sure what she meant to say in the first place.

"I understand now," Sam said in answer. "Is Mr. Frodo awake?"

That question was sufficient to settle most of her doubts. "Nay, not last I checked. If you want to sit with him, I'm sure he'll be awake sometime."

Sam nodded and sat up. "I tried to talk to him . . . he didn't hear. He was . . . he was dreaming, I think. He was seeing his Mum . . ." He buried his face in his hands but couldn't hold back a sob. Rosie sat next to him and drew his head to her shoulder, and they both wept.

After finally rising, dressing, and eating a bit of breakfast, Sam settled himself by Frodo's bedside, not to be moved until he'd managed to make himself understood. Most infuriatingly, Frodo was oblivious to his surroundings until well into the afternoon, which Rosie tried to assure Sam was likely the result of Frodo-lad being a tad over-generous with the poppy the night before. But the wait was all worthwhile, for when Frodo finally opened his eyes, he smiled to see Sam. "Sam!" he said hoarsely, licking his lips. "It's been a while. I feared I'd offended you somehow," he teased gently.

"No, I needed to get me head on straight," Sam admitted shame-facedly, moving to sit on the edge of the bed and helping Frodo drink a bit of water. "I'm a right ninnyhammer, you know. I . . . I need to apologize. I . . ." he couldn't continue and hung his head to hide his eyes filling with tears.

Frodo grasped his hand weakly. "Sam," he whispered. "You don't-"

"No, let me say my piece," Sam insisted. "I-If you . . . need to go, I understand . . . I'll miss you . . ."

With effort, Frodo managed to move his hand to Sam's cheek, where his fingertips brushed against warm wetness. "Oh, Sam," he said unhappily. His arm shook, and he had to drop his hand back to the coverlet. He took a careful breath and said the only thing that came to mind. "I'll wait for you, wherever it is that hobbits go."

This made Sam weep all the more, and Frodo was at a loss, feeling his own eyes prick with tears to see Sam so overwrought. At length Sam began to calm, sniffling and blowing his nose. Frodo watched him with half-lidded eyes, aware that he was near the end of his strength and would soon be asleep whether he wanted it or no.

"I'm sorry," Sam said finally.

Frodo smiled slightly. "I'm glad you're here," he whispered and closed his eyes. Sam shifted to move off the bed and Frodo grabbed his wrist. "Don't go," he pleaded.

"I'm not going nowhere, Mr. Frodo," Sam said, taking his hand and squeezing it. "I'm just moving back to this here chair so's I don't bother your rest." He kept Frodo's hand in his while he did so.

"All right," Frodo said, and let himself drift. He slept for a time, then floated toward awakening, feeling Sam's hand still holding his before giving way to dreams again.

Sam watched Frodo sleep for many hours, studiously listening to every sigh, gasp, and moan, his senses on alert whenever the regular rhythm of his breathing altered. On two occasions Frodo's breathing slowed until it nearly ceased and Sam felt his own heart nearly stop, afraid that he might be witnessing his dear master's last moments. Then Frodo gasped and coughed and resumed his normal rate of respiration, and Sam first felt relieved, then felt guilty for grudging poor Mr. Frodo release from his illness. He stubbornly remained on his lone watch, through meals and without so much as taking a turn up and down the hall, until Rosie caught him napping in the chair. She kissed him and told him to eat something and go to bed, for he was no use to Mr. Frodo if he was dead on his feet. Frodo stirred and woke when Sam finally removed his hand.

"How are you feeling, dear?" Rosie asked, and Sam remained in place to hear the answer.

"Sleepy," Frodo said in a whisper.

"I could have guessed that," Rosie teased, running her hand through his hair. "All right, we'll stick with simple questions. Could you eat something?"

"Maybe." He appreciated it when she asked him things he could answer with only one word, and she knew it.

"I'll bring you some soup, then. Or would porridge suit you better?"

"Soup."

"Do you want us to turn you after?"

"Yes."

"Do you need to be changed?"

Frodo frowned. "Dunno."

"We'll check in a bit. Which pain draught would you like for tonight?"

"Middle." They had designated the three options as low, middle, and high, corresponding with their strength, so Frodo wouldn't have to remember what they were called.

"Do you feel up to a bath?"

"No."

"Sponge bath?"

"Maybe."

"Do you need a rubdown?"

Frodo had to weigh the pain of movement against the warmth and fleeting relaxation of being rubbed down. Pain won. "No."

"Is there anything else you need that I can do or get for you?"

"No, thank you."

The interrogation thus ended, Sam left and crossed paths with Frodo-lad in the hallway. He waited anxiously in the kitchen for Rosie, who appeared moments later. He told her about Frodo's breathing and to his surprise, she merely nodded. "He started doing that two nights ago, nearly scared Goldi out of her wits." She fetched Mr. Frodo's soup and a few other things, and bustled back out of the room, leaving Sam to his melancholy thoughts.

Frodo had some of the soup and drank all of his tea and some water besides, so he considered the meal a reasonable success. He assented to a sponge bath and drifted off under Rosie and Frodo-lad's gentle ministrations.

When he awoke with a start, it was some time later, though he couldn't see the mantle clock when he was on his side.

Frodo-lad was whittling and looked up from his work when he heard Mr. Frodo make a small sound; Frodo looked disoriented and confused. "What is it, Mr. Frodo?"

"What's the date?" he asked vaguely.

"The twenty-first, for a couple hours more, anyway."

Mr. Frodo muttered under his breath for a few moments, then said with a sigh, "Too far away."

"What's too far away?"

"Merry's visit," Mr. Frodo said almost mournfully. He coughed raggedly. "She said three, maybe four days."

"She? Who's she?" Frodo-lad asked, befuddled by the entire conversation. He was almost relieved when his mother arrived to say good-night. He quickly told her what had passed thus far.

Rosie sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed Frodo's back. "What's this about?"

"I . . . I'll be going soon," he said hesitantly.

"Are you sure?" Rosie asked, tears rising unbidden to her eyes.

Frodo nodded once. "I saw Aunt Esme . . . she sat right there too . . . she said it won't be too much longer . . ."

"And you believe her?" Rosie prodded gently, not prepared to accept that his aunt's ghost or spirit or what-have-you had really talked to him.

"I can feel she's right," Frodo whispered. "Hard to breathe . . . so cold . . ."

Rosie mentally added to his list the vague bluish tint some of his skin ws acquiring, and the growing coldness of his feet. She knew he was right, whether or not that dream-ghost was. "What do you want us to do?"

"Merry . . . Pip," he managed.

"You want us to send for your cousins?" Rosie asked to confirm.

"Yes."

"Do you want me to wake Sam?"

Frodo smiled slightly. "Not that soon."

Rosie caressed his cheek. "We'll send for your cousins, dear, and tell them you'll try to wait until they arrive. Does that sound all right?"

"Yes." It was almost a sigh rather than a word, and his eyes drifted closed.

Rosie stood and beckoned for Frodo-lad to come talk to her in the doorway. "If I fetch the supplies, will you write a note to them? I believe Pippin and his family are in Buckland by now, so we'll only need to send one."

"Of course, and I'll take it to the Post-Office, too, if you'll sit with him."

"Aye, that would work. And find out if Fatty is at home or not; I can send someone for him in the morning."

A note was quickly written, and Frodo-lad was on his way into Hobbiton soon after. The Quick Post clerk was difficult to rouse; Frodo-lad had to ring the bell a good half-dozen times before the middle-aged hobbit in dressing gown and nightcap blearily opened the door. Once the clerk knew it was business for the Mayor, well, he was a good deal less grumbly, though he did mutter about decent hobbits waiting until daylight. Frodo-lad impatiently waited for him to shuffle through his papers to locate the note about the Deputy Mayor's whereabouts. Finally, it was determined that he would be returning home by luncheon the next day, and Frodo-lad hurried home.

Just before noon the next day, Rosie sent Pippin with a note to Fatty, telling him to come and stay with them for a few days, for it was nearly time. Fatty arrived at the front door within an hour, bags in hand, and settled in to the household routine, gladly sitting with Frodo from time to time. After that, all they could do was keep Frodo comfortable and wait.


	18. To Thy Rest

Here we are at last... I greatly appreciate those who have been reading this little work despite the difficult subject matter.

Wordcount: 2,590 for this part

Chapter Summary: Merry and Pippin arrive at Bag End; the waiting meets its conclusion.

Warning: character death. If you're the weeping type, consider this your hanky warning...

* * *

Merry and Pippin trudged up to Bag End just before sunset on the twenty-fourth, having left their exhausted ponies at the Ivy Bush's stable to be cared for. They weren't sure which door to use -Merry preferred to use the kitchen door when he wasn't there on official business, while Pippin always used the front- but the decision was made for them when the front door opened as they neared the gate. "I'm glad you came, he'll be happy to see you," Rosie said when they were close enough to hear her.

She looked tired and worn, but her words and expression confirmed that they had come in time, which was an unspeakable relief. It would have been heartbreaking to have ridden their ponies almost to lameness only to arrive too late. Rosie said no more as she ushered them in and took their small packs while they washed their feet. Now that they were there, Pippin found himself almost hesitant to see Frodo, perhaps afraid of what he'd see, or just unwilling to acknowledge that soon Frodo will be lost to him. But Merry was moving toward Frodo's room as soon as his feet were dry enough not to leave puddles, so Pippin followed.

Frodo was lying on his side and facing the doorway, his eyes open but staring unseeingly at the wall. When Merry stopped just inside the door, Rosie urged him forward, saying Frodo was often daydreaming, but he usually responds if you speak to him. Merry ventured forward, Pippin always one step behind him, and knelt next to the bed so Frodo could see him without much effort. "Hullo, Frodo," he said, tentatively touching Frodo's hand.

The reaction was immediate; Frodo's eyes flickered to look at him and the corner of his mouth curved upward. "You made it," he said, his joy apparent though his voice was weak. His eyes shifted to look for Pippin. "You both made it," he restated.

"Of course we did. We always do as you ask," Pippin said breezily.

"No you don't," Frodo said, trying to chuckle but coughing instead.

"Only sometimes, then," Pippin corrected. "But in this case we thought it best to make an appearance."

"I'm sorry to take you away from your party."

"They're carrying on without us, don't you worry," Merry assured him. "We couldn't let all that food go to waste, you know."

"Good," Frodo said, and closed his eyes briefly.

Rosie saw this, having been hovering in the background during the exchange, and said, "Mr. Frodo, do you need to sleep for a bit?"

Frodo hesitated, then nodded. "Sorry."

"Don't be, Frodo. We aren't going anywhere," Pippin promised.

Merry squeezed Frodo's hand and stood; Pippin patted his shoulder, and they both followed Rosie out, leaving Frodo under the watchful eye of Elanor. Rosie beckoned them to the kitchen and commanded them to sit at the table as she handed them plates and began uncovering the pots and pans crowding the top of the stove. "Meals are an informal affair these days, what with tending to Mr. Frodo and all," she said as she set the warm dishes before them. "Eat, and we'll talk after."

Rosie left the kitchen for a moment, then returned with Sam, Fatty, and Frodo-lad in tow. She continued bustling about after they sat at the table and started talking to Pippin about his trip north; she finally sat next to Sam with a plate of her own when Merry was halfway done eating. Rose-lass also made a brief appearance, but took her plate out to sit with Elanor in Frodo's room.

When all the corners were filled, the plates and dishes were cleared from the table, and the conversation was lagging, Rosie set out a fresh pot of tea and clean cups and said, "Well, now, you know why we sent for you, so how about I tell you what's been going on since you both were here last, and we'll go from there." She described briefly Frodo's illness on the thirteenth, and his declining health afterward. "He gets . . . confused sometimes, and isn't sure where or when he is. He stopped eating yesterday, and hasn't had much to drink today, so it's only a matter of time."

Silence reigned for several moments as Merry and Pippin absorbed what she'd told them. Then Sam spoke, "You both look bushed. Do you want to sleep a while, and we'll fetch you when Mr. Frodo is awake? You can use our bed."

Rosie nodded in agreement. "Go on," she encouraged.

Rose-lass returned to the kitchen and put her plate in the sink. "Mr. Frodo is asking for Pippin," she said.

Pippin rose. "No rest for the weary," he quipped. "Go on and sleep, Mer. You look like you need it."

Merry smacked Pippin's leg as he went by, then looked at Rosie. "Chances are he'll need to sleep again after talking to Pippin, yes?" Rosie nodded.

"Then I think I will take you up on the offer of a bed. We hardly rested on the way here."

.

Frodo was sitting nearly upright in bed when Pippin came in. Elanor left them alone, telling Pippin to call if anything was needed. Frodo gestured for Pippin's hand and held it in both of his cold ones. "I'm grateful you came," he said. "Tell me about . . . the visit with Diamond's family."

Pippin eagerly focused on this topic, not sure what else he should be saying. After a while Frodo closed his eyes, and Pippin trailed off, hesitating lest he disturb his cousin's rest. "Go on, 'm resting my eyes," Frodo urged sleepily, so Pippin resumed.

When he was finished, Frodo squeezed his hand and sighed, stirring for the first time in several minutes. "My dear Pip," he said, then fell silent again. Pippin was unsure if he was sleeping or merely 'resting his eyes' until Frodo's grip on his hand slackened and Pippin concluded he must be asleep. He didn't leave right away, preferring to sit a while to watch, fixing Frodo in his memory.

He remained by the bedside until Frodo-lad knocked once on the door and stuck his head in to ask if anything was needed. "Just some sleep for me, I'm afraid," Pippin said, gently pulling his hand out from under Frodo's and standing to stretch.

"Go ahead, Uncle Pippin. It's time for my watch anyway," Frodo-lad told him.

Pippin gratefully retired to Rosie and Sam's bedroom, where he tried not to disturb Merry as he climbed into bed. For a moment he wondered where Rosie and Sam would be sleeping for the night, but exhaustion quickly drove out all thought.

Frodo-lad was joined by Sam and Fatty; Rosie sent Goldi back to bed -she didn't look at all well, the poor lass, but whether it was exhaustion or she was sickening for something Rosie couldn't yet tell- and settled herself on the couch for a nap. Elanor and Rose-lass had already gone to bed, and the smial fell quiet, disturbed only by the snores of the sleepers and Frodo's rasping breathing. Frodo-lad noticed several occasions where Mr. Frodo's breathing slowed and seemed to stop for several agonizing heartbeats before he took another breath, and what breathing he was doing sounded more labored than it had even a few hours before.

Thus he was relieved when Mr. Frodo woke and asked for Merry. He hurried down the hall, slowing only when he reached the door and slipped quietly inside. He carefully made his way to the far side of the bed and shook the slumbering hobbit's shoulder. "Uncle Merry," he whispered, "Mr. Frodo wants you."

Merry awoke with a start and blinked groggily at him, but the words soon penetrated the sleep-fog and he sat up quickly, pushing aside Pippin's arm that had flung itself across his chest. He slipped out of the bed and stumbled after Frodo-lad, who led the way back to the bedroom door. The trip down the hallway was a blur, but he felt mostly conscious by the time he reached Frodo's room. He went up to the bed, took a good look at Frodo, and joked, "You look terrible."

To his relief, Frodo smiled wanly. "Thank you. So do you," he whispered.

Merry held Frodo's hand and kissed the knuckles lightly. "Truly, Frodo, you don't sound good. Is there anything we can do for you?" he asked seriously, running his free hand through his mussed hair.

Frodo swallowed carefully. "No," he said, shivering.

"Would another quilt help?"

"Not likely," Frodo said ruefully.

Merry sighed. "I'd try holding you, but I suspect that would hurt you more than it would help."

"Unfortunately," Frodo agreed. He shifted his head a bit and sighed. "It shan't be long," he said wearily, closing his eyes and coughing weakly.

Merry tightened his grip on Frodo's hand. "Should I fetch Sam?"

"Not yet."

They sat in companionable silence a while, each wrapped in their own thoughts. Fatty poked his head in and Merry gestured for him to come in, and they conversed quietly. Frodo was glad to hear the sound of their familiar voices, though he didn't listen so closely as to follow the conversation. Then Sam's voice joined them and Frodo drifted in and out of a light doze. Visions of those who awaited him appeared as if in his bedroom even as he heard the voices of Sam, Fatty, and Merry. It was almost time.

Merry was the first to react when Frodo started choking; heedless of being gentle, he gathered Frodo to him and leaned him against his chest, striking his back twice.

Frodo coughed roughly but resumed breathing, the rattle in his chest more pronounced. He clutched Merry's shirt as he gasped, leaning heavily on his cousin. "I'm going," he said, only distantly hearing the gasp of dismay from someone, probably Sam. "P-put me down," he managed, his head swimming.

The light-headedness was only mildly abated by returning to his former position. Merry cupped his face gently. "What is the time?" Frodo managed to ask between gasps.

"About two in the morning," Fatty replied from near the mantel.

Frodo closed his eyes and nodded.

"Why?" Merry asked him, leaning in close so Frodo wouldn't have to speak very loudly. "Do you want the others here?"

"I was . . . curious," Frodo said with a hint of a smile, then sobered. "I don't know . . . "

Rosie, awakened by the coughing, appeared at the bedside. She wetted a cloth and pressed it to Frodo's lips for a moment. "Is that better?"

"A bit," Frodo whispered. He closed his eyes and seemed to go to sleep, but then he murmured, "Fatty . . . grandbabe?"

"You want to know if Fatty's grandbabe has come?" Rosie clarified.

Frodo nodded slightly, so Fatty came closer and said, "Born yesterday morning, Frodo. A healthy lass, and they're both quite well."

Frodo smiled feebly and squeezed Fatty's hand. "I'm glad," he said softly. He let go of Fatty's hand to shift restlessly, clutching at his blankets. "Oh," he groaned, and shuddered, his breathing starting to slow again.

Merry and Rosie both watched him carefully, then exchanged a meaningful look. "I'll fetch Pippin," Merry said softly.

"I'll wake Elanor, Rose-lass, and Goldilocks," Fatty volunteered.

Merry stopped just outside the bedroom door to shake Frodo-lad's shoulder; the lad had taken a seat in the hall next to Frodo's bedroom door and fallen asleep there, his head awkwardly resting back against the wall.

Rosie stayed near Frodo, trying in vain to make him more comfortable by fluffing pillows, smoothing blankets, and patting his face with a cloth. Finally Frodo whispered, "Sam, hold me?"

Sam was hesitant, afraid to hurt him, but Rosie gently nudged him to comply with the request, murmuring that the reassurance will likely outweigh any physical discomfort. So Sam carefully sat on the bed next to Frodo and leaned against the pillows. There were some awkward moments when Sam wasn't sure how to hold him without actually picking him up and putting him on his lap, but Rosie to helped him slide under the covers and sit right next to Frodo, his arm around the thin back and Frodo's head pillowed on his shoulder. As Sam settled, his leg brushed against Frodo's foot and he was startled by how cold it was. Tears gathered in his eyes and he held Frodo closer, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

The nearness and warmth of Sam soothed Frodo and he drowsed in his arms for a while, half hearing the sounds of hobbits moving about the bed, chairs scraping on the floor, and low murmurs of conversation. Once or twice Sam spoke, and Frodo felt more than heard the words. Every so often there was a hand against his brow or a touch on his hand; he tried to respond to these caresses by shifting his head or twitching his hand, but it grew increasingly difficult to compel his body to obey his commands.

With an effort, Frodo roused himself enough to open his eyes and take in the concerned faces arrayed around his bed. Rosie, Merry, Pippin, and Fatty were closest to him on either side of the bed; the young ones were clustered at the foot of the bed, the lasses whispering amongst themselves while Frodo-lad watched the proceedings with wide-eyed attention. "I have quite an audience," Frodo commented wryly; all other conversation ceased at the sound of his voice.

"Does that bother you?" Rosie asked after a moment.

"No, no . . . it's all right," Frodo said. He had to take several breaths before he could manage to say what he really wanted to say. "Thank you for all you've done for me, all of you."

Sam tightened his arm around Frodo in response, Rosie squeezed Frodo's hand; no one spoke, words proving inadequate for the torrent of emotions. Merry took his hand when Rosie released it and kissed it briefly, and Pippin followed suit. Frodo felt the warm wetness of tears running between his fingers, and he murmured, "I love you."

.

He dozed off after that, or lost consciousness -Frodo-lad couldn't tell the difference from his vantage point and didn't want to ask. But he was definitely still breathing, slow and irregular as it was, and Frodo-lad felt breathless himself as they waited for something to happen. His sisters began whispering again, talking of Goldi and her soon-to-be suitor and speculating how long it might take for the engagement.

At the head of the bed, Fatty had come around to the side where Merry and Pippin sat and was asking in a low tone about whether 'arrangements' had been made. Frodo-lad didn't care to speculate what had been arranged, though he saw Merry's head nod. He returned his focus to Mr. Frodo, whose breathing slowed and appeared to stop several times during their vigil, but always resumed again, perhaps more shallow and labored than before.

The first light of dawn had begun to seep in the small window when Mr. Frodo sighed and his expression changed, relaxing into a look of peace and contentment that Frodo-lad had never seen before. He recollected his father's description of Mr. Frodo sleeping in Ithilien and how he'd looked old and beautiful, a faint light shining within, and Frodo-lad suddenly understood what he'd seen, for that Mr. Frodo was now lying before him.

Then the moment passed. After several long minutes, his mother reached to feel for the pulse in Mr. Frodo's neck, and Frodo-lad knew what she would say before she said it.

"He's gone."


End file.
